Better Safe
by Biichi-gi
Summary: This is after Yes Men, when Ward is trying to deal with his loss of self-control. T rated, uh, just because, better safe
1. Problem Pup

**Ah,** **heckfire, this is a first attempt at this stuff and I hope it suits someone. Also, after reading it about 300 times, I probably skipped straight over any mistakes, so excuse me.**

"We need to talk." May ambushed Phil Coulson on his way out of the dressing room, opening the intended conversation with a prompt that, ordinarily, spelled trouble. Yet, as he thought over those last several days following the departure of Lady Sif and her prisoner, nothing came to mind. Per his instructions, the team had taken a day off to recover and, though still somewhat subdued, things seemed to be getting back to normal. Better yet, they'd received no priority requests for their services and no alerts from S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ so... What could be wrong?

Still, May had asked and, clearly, something was bothering her so Coulson led her to his office where their conversation would be private. May waited for him close and lock the door before turning to face a confused but never flustered Phil Coulson. "What's up?" He asked, settling into a chair and offering her one."I'm sorry. This may seem like a stupid question, but-". May began, not yet settling down for the conversation she'd initiated. "Have you seen Ward lately?"

Puzzled by that innocuous question on the heels of such a, well, dramatic introduction, he responded automatically. "Huh? Sure, he's-

"Right after-" When the answer did not spring to mind, he thought over the past several days. Of course, Ward had been involved in the dustup with Lady Sif. And afterward, he'd, well, they'd all had sought a little sack time to recover. Though, he remembered, Ward had meant to carry on with his regular duties, predictably declaring that, contrary to appearances, he was fit and would hold the fort til the others recovered, an assertion he had maintained until Phil had flatly ordered him to take downtime.

"Since then?" Brisk and uncharacteristically the agent interrupted him to ask.  
"Sure." His was an automatic response because, after all, they were on the Bus so where could he go? Once prompted, though, he could not think if he had seen Ward since he ordered him to rest. Maybe in passing. But Grant was a specialist, solitary and focused both by nature and training; no doubt he was busying himself with preparations for the next job. The man always seemed to be busy working on, well, work. "Okay," he answered after due consideration. "Maybe not. Why'd you ask?"

"Because," May's serious gaze held his, "no one else has, either."  
What! Not a little stunned by that unwonted revelation, his initial reaction, a single inarticulate, "Hhnnn?"

By now, familiar with Coulson's methods, May waited for him to process the information and was rewarded, moments later, when he continued. "Since this disappearance seems to include everyone, I assume you have an answer for me."

In response, May quirked an eyebrow for permission and pulled up a computer screen. "Simmons came to me two days ago because he hasn't been to see Skye once in that whole time. She asked the same question and, believe me, I had the same answer. He is kind of a ghost at the best of times," she admitted, a sadly reflective smile clouding her face. This, Phil observed, coming from a woman who made solitude and inscrutable an art form, while he appreciated the absolution her admission offered him. After all, as the captain of the team, it was his job to know where, and how, it's members were. At all times. He nodded for her to continue. Little wonder it had been Skye who noticed the absence, he reckoned, making a mental note to commend her while pointing out that, in this closed environment, people did need personal space.

"We talked about it and no one's caught more than a glimpse since-" May paused for a fortifying breath, "the incident with Lady Sif."

"Well, I did tell him to take some downtime," he temporized, remembering the younger man's resistance to the suggestion that had, per force, escalated to a command before he'd put down the equipment on which he was working and gone to his room. Of course, Coulson admitted privately, he would not have locked him in, being fully briefed on the details of Ward's formative years, but Grant did not need to know that. Even the threat, however necessary he deemed it, left Coulson feeling like he'd just drowned a starving puppy. Perhaps it had worked too well. Never his intention! "I wasn't very nice about it." He admitted.

May suppressed a smile at that sheepish admission, if there was anyone whose 'not very nice' was nicer, she'd never met them. "So," she continued, searching for the file they had prepared and opening the video. "We, well, Skye and Simmons mostly, used the security monitors to track his movements. This is how he spent that time, Phil. The notations across the bottom indicate the time he spent on each activity."

Silence reigned for long moments after the video ended, during which Phil contemplated the listing at the end which calculated the total times spent on the various activities. At last he looked up to face his pilot and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. "Let me get this, in the last three days he's spent approximately 40 hours exercising, 20 cleaning and checking weapons, about 3 eating and bathing and 8 or just under it at least appearing to sleep?" He asked, incredulous.

Sober, May nodded agreement. "More or less. And making note of what he did consume," she folded her arms across her chest and paused for emphasis, "all told it was less than 2000 Calories, if he actually ate that much."

"What the he- heck?" Coulson voiced that rhetorical question, certain that, having dropped her stun bomb, May would elaborate.

"We've all tried to talk to him but he's dodged us or found some lame excuse to leave. Simmons had the best luck. She got him to drink a cup of sedative spiked tea; but he only had a little to be polite, which might have bought us a couple hours. No more because either he set an alarm or he had a nightmare and got up to do an hour and a half of calisthenics. He hasn't drunk anything but tap water since, so that's out as an option for getting him down.

"She have any idea what's wrong?" Coulson asked with, she concluded, hampered by the typical masculine blinders that never liked to admit it could happen to them.

"Phil," May answered quietly, allowing time for him to process an unpalatable truth. "He was raped. Lorelei compelled him to have sex. She gave him no choice in the matter. Something that has happened way too often in his life, so now, he's trying to regain control.

"If we're not able to make him see reason," her. slight pause was telling, the more so for the sorrow she allowed to reflect in her face. "I don't know how much further he'll go before he really hurts himself."

He nodded understanding. "Also," he added, "probably punish himself for being weak, failing at his job. He said that-right after-which is stupid."

Something Coulson would pick up on, May observed and snorted, "As if," no one who'd met Specialist Ward would call him weak or failing his responsibilities. Not Skye's 'T1000'. "You need to talk to him."

So it was that Team Captain Phil Coulson found himself outnumbered by his teammates and brainstorming the means of 'delicately/ compassionately' confronting their wounded specialist.

From the safety of the monitors, Coulson and May watched the specialist work the punching bag. No finesse and no footwork involved, he stood in front of the bag and pounded away, blows landing with metronomic precision until the places they could see, despite heavy wrapping, were soaked with sweat and blood. Even the casual glance showed a significant loss of weight and haggard appearance, anathema to a man who was usually the poster boy for a specialist in S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson fumed, way beyond furious that, knowing the man's background, he had failed to anticipate the likelihood of this happening.

Beside him, May seconded his cursed response at the sight and patted his shoulder in encouragement. "Remember," she told him, "we can always use the night-night on him if we have to."

"Yeah," he admitted, "but we'd only be putting it off and that's not fair to Ward. He needs to feel we're there to support him not sneaking around behind to ambush him, which we already tried and it didn't work. Right now he doesn't need another problem, he needs some peace." So he heaved a sigh of resignation and left to confront his troubled subordinate.

"Ward," Phil Coulson stood just inside the gym, strategically placed so his agent could not leave without overtly avoiding him. Even that, quietly delivered, saw the usually steel nerved man startle visibly and spin to identify the threat then flush with palpable embarrassment. In seconds he recovered to stand, rigidly attentive, and respond, "Sir?"  
Though his voice did not falter, Ward's eyes assumed a haunted and suspicious look as he continued. "What do you need, Sir?" It was a natural enough question, delivered with almost desperate intensity, Phil decided, that left little doubt he'd not only drowned that puppy, he'd kicked him first for good measure.

"Could I have a few moments Ward?"

"Sir!" He snapped a response, eyes straight ahead as though it was his first day at the Academy; then, almost as quickly reproached himself for his slavish overreaction and forced himself to assume a more natural stance. At that Coulson found himself again cursing the vicious and vain Asgardian they'd so recently helped defeat and return home. He could see, too, the barely controlled tension beneath the ramrod stance and feared it was less pride and more desperate need to prove, to himself if no one else, his worth. Damn that woman! he wanted to rage, seeing, as May had previously observed, that even a few days on short rations, too much exercise and too little sleep had taken a major toll on the usually self-assured young man. He saw something else. Beyond the red, fatigue hollowed eyes and over defined muscles of anorexia, Ward all but vibrated like a key struck piano wire, tension Coulson most assuredly did not want to ramp up before their talk.

"Let's go to my office, Grant, and I'll grab us a cup of coffee." Coulson offered the invitation as casually as he could, for all that it was, unequivocally, a command. And Ward met that offer with the fatalistic acceptance of a man being led to the guillotine, leaving little doubt that he saw nothing good coming from it. Indeed how could he? Experience had proven him right time and again. Nevertheless he faced the challenge head-on, as he had his whole life, and obediently followed Coulson.

For his part, having deposited Ward in his office, Phil made his way to the kitchen, planning the fastest turnaround he could, afraid if he took too long, his specialist would elope. He needn't have worried; May had been watching on the monitor and beat him there, anticipating his need.

Nor was she the only one. Even before he reached the kitchen, Coulson heard the animated discussion of the other team members, and sure enough, the scene of domestic tranquility which met him was as amusing as it was heartwarming. So much so that he paused to commemorate it with a picture before going in. Fitz-Simmons, clothing protected by toweling, were there with May, and the still bed-ridden Skye watching through a laptop, all working in concert to prep the assault on their guilt ridden teammate. Jemma was just pulling a batch of wondrous smelling scones from the oven which she set beside a plate of chocolate chip cookies, themselves clearly fresh made. And May filled a huge tray with coffee, cups and cream and sugar then helped stock it with cookies and scones. A little overwhelmed and wondering how he'd get the darned thing there in one piece, Coulson smiled in appreciation, "This is really nice but I'll never"

"You don't have to, Sir," Simmons burbled producing a no doubt scrupulously sterile specimen cart upon which May settled the tray. "We just wanted to let Ward- That is, to show him we care," she offered a blushing explanation and bustled back with-napkins, no less-which she placed on the already loaded tray. "These are his favorite cookies, and Fitz says he'll absolutely adore the scones. They're oatmeal."

"He will," Coulson decided then and there, 'if I have to shove them down his throat.' "Well," he followed the cart, already in motion thanks to Fitz and May, "Thanks. I better take it from here." Which, as it happened, was the door to his office.

More surprising to Coulson, Ward was still there when he returned with the promised beverage, though, sadly, he remained rigidly at attention looking, if possible, more friable than he had in the gym.

"Have a cup of coffee,". Coulson offered, indicating the loaded tray. "Maybe a cookie or two while we talk."

"I don't -". Ward broke off, recognizing the misstep, and consciously rephrased his refusal. "I'd rather not. Thank you, Sir,"

"Noted," Coulson smiled, disarmingly agreeable. "Have one anyway, Ward; and sit down." he instructed, sipping at his coffee til the agent reluctantly complied and awaited further instructions, cookie abandoned on his knee and the cup cradled in his hands as though it were a live grenade. Coulson had expected some kind of delaying tactic from the distressed agent, had been curious what he would come up with. Apparently, he noted with amused understanding, Ward had opted to ignore the coffee and sweet until Coulson forgot them. 'Not gonna happen, Grant,' he promised with a smile and selected one of his own to savor, enjoying the mid morning treat. "I have a problem I need your help with." he began, taking another bite.

"If I can, Sir." Ward responded, eyes surreptitiously checking his own cookie and swallowing hard.

'That a boy.' Coulson encouraged, finding himself again with an image of luring that starving puppy to food. 'Good boy.' "Pretty sure you can." He put the final frame of the women's carefully prepared report on screen watching the agent's reaction to the list of how he had occupied himself for the last 72 hours. Ward visibly flinched, and the coffee grenade 'exploded'. Well, Coulson admitted to indulging a slight exaggeration for effect; to be accurate, it more spilled over onto his pants; but, clearly this was something Ward had thought, or hoped, no one would notice. "Would you care to explain?"

For several moments, Ward stared at the display, almost visibly castigating himself for getting caught. Then he carefully set his coffee on the desk in front of him After that, he kept his eyes on the moistened material, scrubbing at his wet pants with one of the napkins the ever proper Jemma had provide as though it was the most important job he had. When he spoke, his answer was not unexpected, "The price of failure." A perspective too like that forced upon him by his father in particular and, quite probably, his SO, John Garrett. "I can't let it happen again." And that was justification for starvation and overwork? Coulson wondered, but he knew it was the kind of approach John took, one of the reasons Coulson had wanted Grant. Another 'Project' as John snidely referred to his request for the specialist. Didn't matter; Phil Coulson hated to see a good agent ruined, especially one already, if the not so oblique references in his file were accurate, vulnerable by upbringing. He didn't mind the term at all if it meant he could get to him early enough to make a difference.

"What failure, Ward? Let what happen?" Coulson asked, reaching for another cookie and reminding himself that, unlike his 'project', he did have to worry about those extra cookies.

"To protect and defend this ship, this team. That's my responsibility, Sir. And I walked away, just like that." Profound sadness reflected in his eyes with that forthright admission.

"Not 'just like that', Ward, and you know it."

"My choice, Sir. A bad one. I have to accept the consequences, atone for-"

"No, you don't, because you had no choice. You, like Fitz and the others she controlled, were conscripted, as good as drugged. But, Agent Ward, since you think you need it, what punishment do you think fits the crime?" Coulson could almost see the options flashing through his specialist's mind, likely none pleasant and all involving some kind of retributive violence. Until he cautioned, "Whatever happens, you're in it together, Ward. You and Fitz."

That statement took the wind out of him, thank God, Coulson breathed in relief. Because while Grant would no doubt accept punishment on his own account, he did not seem willing to visit it upon the quirky engineer of whom he had grown fond. Now, how to broach the real question, Coulson reminded, if he could think of-

"I- I slept with her, Sir," Ward all but whispered that admission, his face flushed in shame and his eyes focused on the damp coffee spot he still worried.

"Who wouldn't?" Coulson asked reasonably. "She's beautiful. She's a god. And she's got a hypnotic voice.

"She wanted you, Ward," Coulson did not bandy words or offer excuses, "and she took you, just like she took Fitz. Because she had a need that you filled; and because she could."

"She didn't take you, Sir." He pointed out.

"Well, first, Ward, she already had the Bus and you to fight for her; she didn't need me. Plus," he added, allowing himself the tiniest smirk of satisfaction, "she never got close enough. That didn't hurt."

"I guess not," Ward acknowledged, absently breaking off a piece of his cookie to taste and following it with a sip of coffee.

'That a boy!' Coulson encouraged his imaginary puppy with a relieved smile, 'have some more.' Then, aloud, offered Ward absolution, "And you did not abandon the Bus, either of you. Though I would have preferred one less passenger, and not so much drama, we did get Lady Sif back to Asgard with her prisoner. A job well done, for all of us."

Coulson watched Ward roll those arguments around in his head, saw, too, when another would make the difference and went in for the save. "We all fail sometime, Grant. Out-gunned, out-maneuvered, out-numbered, out-manned," he smiled, knew it was not a happy one as he forced himself to face his own dread recollection, and added the most telling option, "Dead." Ward flinched at that flatly delivered reminder and, with shaking hands, went back to cleaning his pants. He said nothing, though Coulson could see him swallow repeatedly and thought his eyes seemed a bit shinier than usual. His own were no less so, he was sure, but he had no intention of backing away from this dilemma when his agent needed him.

"Things don't always work out the way we hope, Grant. That's life. Sometimes we get to chose; sometimes life, or fate, chooses for us. We just have to make the best choice we can and move on." Coulson gave Ward a minute to consider that, then added his official estimation. "I think you did pretty well, given the circumstances, Grant. That's all any of us can ask of ourselves. You don't need to make up for anything.

"Now, how 'bout we go share some of these goodies with the others? They've been worried about you "And try one of these scones. Fitz says you'll love them."

"Oatmeal?" Ward guessed, leaning forward to take one.

"How'd you know?" Coulson quipped, taking a small one for himself and relaxing back into his chair for a few moments before shepherding Ward out to join the rest of the team.


	2. The Cookie Crumbles

Chapter Two

Finished shaving, Ward put away his personal articles. Then he policed the area, swiping the mirror and sink clean, and checked one last time before pulling on the black T-shirt and pants he'd brought with him. Quicker than his usual clean-up time, he admitted, abashed that fallout from the last Op left him having to prove himself to the people he'd failed. He had to make sure no one thought, as Coulson clearly did, that he was feeling sorry for himself. Because that was weakness and he didn't do that. No one was going to call him a whiner. The taunt thrown at him by his S.O. if he faltered in any assignment or exercise had made no allowance for the frailty of human brain or brawn; accepted no excuse for injury or superior force; and showed no mercy if he did. More than once he'd been left to make his way back to the retrieval site on his own because of it. A few times, early on, he'd been abandoned, desperately hoping for retrieval that had been weeks in coming. Learning 'the hard way' Garrett had lectured, was the only way for a kid like him to get the point. Well he'd gotten it, all right. He relied on no one, invested in no one. No one. Till he got here. Now everything in his life was falling apart. First Skye slipped under the radar, became important to him. Then those damned kids, FitzSimmons, even AC and Melinda. 'God! When did life get so complicated?' he wanted to scream.

'Get a grip, Ward!' Shaking, he leaned against the mirror, waiting till he was sure he'd regained control, then wiped it down again. 'Leave no traces'. That had been another lesson, hard learned and, like all of them, not readily forgotten. God, what was with the 'touchy-feely' stuff! He should never have let himself react to the provocation of that Asgard bitch's effect on him. He'd been trained better, had stood up under all kinds of punishment, common and not so common. Garrett had seen to that, as he had all of Ward's training in those years before the Academy. This was just one more weakness he needed to overcome, one more failure among the many which comprised his life. Garrett would never have let that bitch get to him; neither, then, could Ward.

Resolved, he grabbed his kit and headed back to his room, given, he checked his watch to be sure, six more hours before Coulson would tolerate his presence. Six hours to kill. In his room. Resting. Enforced by security tapes, Coulson had informed him, lest he think to jump the gun. That was okay with him; it was a direct order. He knew how to follow orders, had been doing it all his life.

But when he got to his cubicle, it was occupied. Perched on the foot of his bunk, Leo Fitz all but shot up, pink faced and skittishly anxious to explain. "Hey, Ward. Sorry te intrude but I wondered ef we could talk. Ef it's all right, I mean. That es..." Hopefully eager, he pulled a sack from beside him and prised it open.

"I brought a few cookies and a couple a scones weth me," Fitz ducked his head, self-consciously fingering the bag. "En case you'd talk with me abou' et."

"Sure," he agreed readily. Setting his kit back in its cubby, Ward welcomed the request as anything was preferable to more sleep. Ever since their shared mission, he'd felt a growing rapport for the young engineer, a bond he knew he should quash but found he was loathe to do. Besides, right now, anything was better than just sitting here watching the clock when he wasn't sleepy and didn't feel like reading, so..."What can I do for you?"

"Well. Et's just...how ded you get over Her? You know, the whole brainwashing theng, I mean." He blurted that question and pinkened again, clearly embarrassed to voice his questions. That was something Grant understood. In his experience, uncertainty, questions about what he should or could have done, had never been acceptable, certainly they had not been tolerated and never answered. Maybe that was the root of his recent problem. This whole thing was just another problem to solve, albeit unlike any previous, wherein the power had been in his hands. Perhaps brainstorming with an equally confused Fitz would provide both with a solution, a way to understand and accept-no, cope with-these feelings.

"Stay focused," he answered, settling onto the other end of the bed and accepting the cookie Fitz offered. "Stay busy." Yeah, like that had worked out real well for him! Ward was disgusted by that patently simple-minded blather, his habitual recrimination cut short when Fitz's snortle caught them both by surprise and Ward found himself uncharacteristically joining his visitor in trying not to spew crumbs on the bed while giggling like a loon.

Somehow it helped. Not just the laughter but hearing Fitz shared his confusion. Hell, of all people, Fitz was the last man he'd expect to have a problem with recent events. For one thing, he was so damned smart. While, however Specialized, Ward did not delude himself; he was still an expendable grunt with a built in outdate. On that point he held no delusions: when he ceased to be of use, he ceased to be. And no matter he'd yet to voice it, everyone knew Fitz adored Simmons. If anyone, he should have been impervious to Lorelei's allure; yet even that had not been proof against Her. In a not so obtuse way, that fact somehow made Ward feel a whole lot better.

What. The. Hell? Made him feel better? What was he doing here? Losing it, that's what. How-?

Cookies! It had to be. Those cookies and one of Jemma's much vaunted sandwiches, not to mention that damned pill she'd wheedled him into taking, had sure done a job on him. All this 'touchy-feely sh-t', Garrett called it, was a major no-no, a weakness. And John Garrett hated weakness. So it was somewhat of a shock that Ward found himself catching a deep breath, then another, before venturing into constitutionally foreign territory.

Very little he did-or used to do, he amended, before The Bus-was unplanned. He worked, at whatever the current mission. He trained. He briefed, or debriefed. He maintained weapons, gear...himself. Because that's what he was. Before he joined the Team, that's all he was. It's what gave him the edge to excell. It was, in short, and he knew it, the reason that justified his existence.

And Lorelei had used him, loosed all that training on the Team whose welfare was his personal responsibility, the very team those lethal abilities should have protected. The memory of that time with Her, of how, in Her hands, he had turned on his own, violated him-in Purpose if not in Function-enough to leave him shuddering over the occasional flashed recollection. Had the entire affair involved just the sex, he could have handled that. Certainly he had on other missions because, sometimes, that was just part of the job. But what She'd done, to him and Fitz, was just categorically wrong. She had hijacked their will, their volition. That loss made him sick, even now. Perhaps best not to revisit those moments, then, he knew the drill: 'Better a short memory than a long cry'.

Already rethinking the decision to wallow in 'the feels', Ward began an excuse. "Look, Fitz, I'm hardly the person to ask. It's not as if-"

"But ye were there, Ward! She took YOU, too; and ye're a whole lot stronger than I am." Anguish almost radiated from the young engineer at his betrayal of team and ship. It must, Ward knew, if even he recognized it. Never a 'touchy-feely' guy, a fact obvious even in his early life, he'd failed at human interactions; and, though years of practice had provided a facility at dissembling, he had a relational straight arm that rivaled any in the NFL. All of that-his freaking life!-had begun to change when he was assigned to the Bus. Cursing it for weakness but unable to resist, Ward capitulated, accepting a scone and a coffee that also seemed to have arrived with the distraught young man.

"I don't know, Fitz." Ward shrugged a reply, absently sweeping crumbs to a collection point between them, and chided himself that he 'made work' to avoid facing the young scientist. If that made the admission easier, it was cowardice, taking the easy way out like he'd always done.

Even as a child, he'd been a coward, John showed him that. 'Cowardice is weakness; weakness is failure; and failure is death, Kid.' Why was it so easy to forget that now? Because he cared now. He'd _let_ himself care. 'Let yourself care, Kid, and you lose every time.' But (another failure) he couldn't simply ignore the kid; and, somehow, that no longer felt like a weakness. "I don't know that I did. I mean, I just spent two days locked up in this damned room getting pumped full of food and IV's-"

"It wasn't two days weth the IV, Ward. Admit it. Plus, ye weren't locked in and ye hadn't eaten in like three days, so-ye needed it, anyway."

"That's immaterial, Fitz. It's the principle I'm trying to get across." Ward cast those arguments aside with the cookie crumbs he discarded in the trashbin. "I have a job to do, Fitz, responsibilities. I can't just lay around."

"You just did, Ward, and ye're no wurse for the wear. Now cen we get back to what's really bothering us?"

"Us?" He asked, raising a disdainful brow that denied it but he was touched when Fitz provided the welcome admission he could not.

"Just answer the question, Ward. Okay? What- how de ye do it?"

"I don't think I have, Leo. I know Coulson thinks I'm beating myself up over it; but I'm not. At least I don't think so." Trying to loosen up the unexpected catch in his throat, Ward gulped some of the, thankfully tepid, coffee and tried again. "I- The things I remember from that time...they're like I was someone else. Someone I don't know or understand. I want- I need to destroy the person who did those things. It wasn't me, going after you all. My job-" Frustrated with his inability to explain, Ward dropped his head back in defeat and tried to make sense of the conflicts roiling inside him.

"You did yer job, Ward; an' I did mine," Fitz offered consolation. "It's just we were working for the wrong side." The engineer heaved a desolate sigh. "I think that's the hardest part, ye know. It was the wrong bloody side, yet it all seemed so right a' the time."

"Yeah, it did; but what do I know? I'm just a damn soldier. Hell, Fitz, I'm a weapon that works for anyone who holds it. Period. Nothing more, nothing less. But, even if I couldn't stop, I hated being used against my team." And while that admission left a bitter taste, he knew it was the truth.

"Me, too, Ward," Fitz backhanded a tear. "I don't-I just don't know how te get over it."

"Discipline, Fitz, training, work. It's what I was doing...before. It's-what I do. It's-". A bleak existence, he thought, surprised by that traitorous concept.

"Will you teach me, Ward?"

"What?" But the kid looked so damned excited he hadn't the heart to deny him. Besides, he was training Skye already; one more wouldn't hurt.

"Yeah, tha'd be good. Will ye teach me to fight? You know, train. We could kinda work on it together. Maybe."

He could, Ward admitted, considering the request. It's what he did. Six hours later Fitz bounded to Ward's room, suitably attired and bearing tidings of his 'release', and accompanied him to the gym for their first day of training.


	3. The Borg

**Well, I'm Baack! This seems to've gotten away from me. Apologies tendered. **

"Do you want to talk?" Melinda May asked, toweling off after their shared workout, pleasantly encouraged Ward had even agreed to meet her, given the events of recent days. A day of IV's and two of food and rest had greatly improved his appearance from the gaunt hollow eyed wraith he'd appeared after the incident with Lorelei; and his stamina had returned to former levels. Her delight over that was less about having a worthy sparring partner and more that she had hated seeing that physical condition which, sadly and too accurately, reflected his mental state. It was painful to watch. More so because it so closely paralleled her own state following the incident in Bahrain which had earned her that hated appellation.

"Do I get a choice?" His question, delivered with a quirked smile and atypically jocular lilt, seemed almost rhetorical though she knew better than to treat it as such. Now, that was a new twist, she marveled, because ordinarily Ward did not have a sense of humor. His business, his training, was the only life he knew. Until he joined the team and, specifically, met Skye, he was fanatic in his pursuit of android-like perfection. They had that in common, though. After Bahrain, May had entered a self-imposed penance and done her level best to stop feeling. She'd dropped off the radar into 'Red Tape Central' as Phil Coulson called it, to unheroically lick her wounds. And there she had stayed until, like Ward, she had been re-assigned to the Bus.

Reassigned, her ass! She'd been conscripted, the same as the unwilling specialist beside her, because Phil Coulson thought they both needed 'rescued'. She, from,-how had he put it?-'morbid introspection and second guessing of events beyond her control'. For Ward, it had been the clearly escalating instability of his S.O., John Garrett. And judging from his over-the-top response when their latest Op went south, she feared Coulson had caught this one a little late. Time would tell. None of these speculations, however, reached her eyes. "Sure, Ward," she turned a serene look on the object of her intentions. "You can sit down and we can talk; or I can knock you down and then we can talk." May softened the latter option with a sweet smile and settled onto the mat, patting to offer him a place beside her.

"Well, then, since you asked so nice, and since you've already knocked me around, I guess I'll just sit down." So he did. Easy as that. Offering neither delays nor excuses, he joined her.

Not certain he'd take her up on the offer, and unsure whether the venue would be the gym or the MedBay, she had not prepared in advance. Besides, he'd had enough of manipulation and lies, she had decided, and spoke from the heart. Cold as hers was anymore, they were probably a good match. "I talked to Fitz."

Beside her, Ward stiffened and paled as though any confidences they'd shared were now common knowledge. And the wounded, quietly accusing stare he bent her way bore out that suspicion. "Don't!" She warned as muscles bunched to leave. "I did not go there, Ward. I don't care for people spying into my affairs and I generally return the favor. Especially for teammates." Nodding grave acceptance, Ward let himself ease down, folded his legs into one of the stretches she'd taught him and leaned against the padded wall. Still uncertain, she judged, but at least he was willing to listen. It was a decent beginning.

"Okay," he acknowledged, wrapping his, typically, black towel around his neck, and settled back, ostensibly at ease. That was classic Specialist Ward; and she well knew that, in his case, appearances were not infrequently deceiving. The question: what exactly did that ostensibly placid exterior conceal? "Talk."

"I'm not going to beat around the bush, Ward; and I'm sure not fishing for any big revelations, so-". She reached into the cooler beside her, picked out two bottles and offered them with a waggle to her teammate. At his nod, she uncapped hers and passed the other to him, savoring first the crisp refreshment of the water and then the bottle's welcome coolness against sweating skin.

"Look, we're five days out of the latest Op, the first three of which you spent psychotically trying to kill yourself-". When Ward took a breath, clearly preparing a response, she froze him with a warning glance. "The last two of which you have been fed, rehydrated and forced-" May pointedly selected an alternate word and underlined it with uncompromising stolidity, "encouraged to rest."

'That's what you're calling it now?' his quizzical look said as he cracked his own drink; but he was listening. In truth, she didn't blame Ward for resenting his recently commuted detention as a blow to his autonomy. Neither could she argue that, after three days of self abuse, he had kind of forfeited the right to complain. Her own post Bahrain rehab would have gone faster if someone had done the same for her.

"Leo Fitz has none of your training, virtually no experience and absolutely no appreciation of sexual reciprocality." When Ward's eyes popped and his brows shot up his forehead, May favored him with a quelling look of disapproval. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Ward, he's not a virgin-NOT that I solicited that information-but you know Fitz, it seemed to be a point of honor." May privately wondered if Ward's, fostered on Garrett's jaded perspective, was much sounder, (though certainly his technique was faultless,) then sternly reminded herself she was here for Grant, not to get sidetracked by erotic fantasies. "I thought, if you had that hard a time dealing with the fallout-and don't lie, to either of us, pretending it was the sex that got you, Ward-Fitz might want someone to talk to." Even she smiled, recognizing the irony of that statement. "Okay," she amended, wincing, "someone to listen."

Embarrassed to admit the lack of mothering she'd been able to offer the engineer, May bent her attentions to the now empty drink. For want of anything better, she removed the plastic collar and wrapping, then tucked both inside before screwing the lid back on. It bought her a few minutes to organize her thoughts. After all, with Fitz, she had listened. Listened to his shock and outrage at turning coat, the fear that his slavish obedience to the megalomaniacal god who'd wanted to (she dared to say it) Rule the World, would hurt the Team or do as much damage as the Chitauri assault on New York. Mostly, he was furious that his vaunted intellect had not been proof against her sorcery; and disillusioned because he'd always believed that his strong point and it had failed, totally.

'But,' she'd pointed out when his anger ran its course, 'they had, in the end, come through as a Team.' And how? She reminded him of Phil's little 0.8.4. Op and how no one of them had the whole solution; but, together, they had each been part of something bigger, every one doing his bit to achieve victory. _ Ta-Da_! Lord, in retrospect there were holes in that speech big enough to fly the Bus through; but Fitz had bought it. Even more astounding, considering. He'd practically bounded back to the lab with relief.

'Now,' she'd told herself, 'seeing as she did so well on Fitz, time to take on the tough nut.' "Look, Ward, I'm not here to find out what sent you over the edge. I'm not here to ferret out any prurient details or psychoanalyze you. I just want you to know you're not alone. I-" May took a moment to breathe mindfully, attention focused on her objective, to defuse the roil of emotions those fell memories brought with them. "You should know, I have...problems with the way some things turned out on a few of my missions, too, so I recognize the signs." Respecting for what it was the sacrifice she made in raking up memories she'd have preferred remain interred, Ward wisely said nothing. He sat, attentive, waiting, and made mention of neither Bahrain nor The Cavalry.

She shrugged away that old acquaintance; it served no purpose save destruction. "You aren't the only one with regrets, Ward. It's just, not all of us try to kill ourself over them."

Ward admired May's struggle to suppress her body's involuntary physical response to the volatile emotions at play. She was the strongest, most stable woman he knew-next only to Natasha Romanov, maybe-so he was stunned upon hearing her admission, even more, that nothing of her outward demeanor gave an inkling of the inner battle she waged. Allowed that glimpse of her vulnerability, he felt awed and privileged that, especially given the brevity of their association, she had trusted him with it. Sorrow, guilt, pain, catharsis, whatever one might call it, this was a side he'd never seen of John Garrett, one he had been savagely derided and disciplined for even considering possible. God Forbid John Garrett's 'pansy assed trainee' come to him sniveling and whining for a 'sugar teat and a kiss to make it all better'! Some few of Grant's truly harrowing memories bore testament to Garrett's displeasure at any reminder or admission of human frailty.

Sure, after he joined the Academy, and gained experience outside the isolated existence he'd shared with Garrett, he'd learned that wasn't true. But John had trained him, thoroughly and well. By the time he discovered how great the disparity between the two perspectives, he couldn't seem to break the habits, or beliefs, inculcated into him during those years. He knew he didn't have to be that 'Terminator' Skye labeled him; but there were just too many years of habit behind him to change. What was the old saw about a dog and his vomit? He had tried to pull away, was trying; but the shackles were just too natural, ingrained, and too much like family.

Still, Ward observed, first Fitz and now May had cared enough about him to offer solace. To a loner like him that novelty was a humbling fact. Fitz had helped him laugh, not about his perceived failures but about his 'gloss over' as Fitz called it. Yeah, he'd sure handled that one with candor and grace! The recollection still brought a smile to his face at the two of them giggling like lunatics and spitting cookie all over the bed. His bed! That...had been good. And it had helped. Not a sugar teat, cookies; but they had fit the bill. And he did feel better. In fact, still tender nerved about his 'meltdown', that interlude had been the reason he'd accepted May's offer instead of waiting til the others slept before he ventured to work out.

He didn't regret the choice. Yet. Experience, however had proven there was usually a shoe yet to drop. He was honest enough to admit her disclosure, or more properly the trust which prompted it, touched and humbled him. So-what? He still couldn't, wouldn't let himself embrace 'the feels' (Skye had introduced him to that vernacular several weeks ago); but May hadn't shown much interest in all that 'sensitivity' stuff either, so-

"John," Ward swallowed the second thoughts clamoring for consideration and forged on, willing to go at least as far as his comrade had done. "That is, I-all that training, all those years and I couldn't stop her. I couldn't...keep her out." Unable to look at May when he owned up to that shortfall, he settled for fiddling with the bottle. Rolling it between his palms, Ward scrupulously avoided the woman beside him, fully expecting a scathing denunciation of his Weakness; but, as he had always known, May was full of surprises.

"Resistance. Is. Futile," May intoned in true Borgian style. It earned her a startled whoop and, almost, a face full of plastic which, under the circumstances, she'd have considered well worth it. Fortunately for both of them, Ward's ingrained reticence prevailed; but even the passing moment of uninhibited delight was such a miracle to behold she made a note to show the tape to Coulson. Maybe it wasn't too late after all.

"Ward," May's voice turned quietly somber, all trace of humor vanished. Rather in the manner of a cornered animal, Ward went from smiling and relaxed to the exact opposite. He straightened in response, tension singing in his frame as he prepared for the expected blow. It never landed. "You should take comfort in what Lady Sif said. No One stands against Lorelei. Not even Thor. Which I'd say puts you in some damned fine company, Specialist." As she could see he was listening, she pushed on.

"After you'd gone, we watched the security video at the diner. You did not become pliant the moment you saw her, or even when she talked to you, as others had. You held your position and were calling for backup when she took you. Physically, because it was the only way she could. There's no cause for shame, Ward. None! Got that?"

"Yes Ma'am!" If Ward's snappy response was any indication, her emotional repair had been successful. On one hand, May decided. On the other, the fact that he'd needed that absolution said more about his dependence on authority than she wanted to know. Especially given the nature of his long-standing S.O., the words 'cold' and 'grue' came to mind, in the worst possible way. Which made it all the more imperative to broach another subject. One she was, herself, loath to do.

Especially now, May most sincerely did not want to rock his newly steadied boat but, given the drama of the past several days, she was convinced this issue had to be confronted. The Staff-acquired tendency to rage, courtesy of yet further Asgardian contact, would not help him in resisting his understandable response to Lorelei's depridations. In fact, given the disparity in the aftereffects suffered by the two men Lorelei'd enthralled, that lingering emotional response might well explain Ward's completely uncharacteristic overreaction. Being the elder, more experienced (not to say locked down) agent of the two, Grant Ward should have been fine. But he hadn't. Instead, he raged at his inability to resist her command, which he perceived as weakness, and sought more discipline in the, likely brutal, methods by which he'd been taught.

Preparing to derail her own incipient rage, May embraced what calm she could then did what she had to, careful to keep her demeanor unthreatening. "Just after we'd left the Bifrost, when Sif had gone, Coulson came to me-with a question. I didn't answer him then. I wouldn't because the answer I had wasn't one he wanted to hear." May stood and went to toss the empty bottle in the receptacle before she spoke again, a deep sigh prefacing her words. "It's still not what he wants to hear; but I can't help that, and we can't wait for the one he does."

"What are you talking about, May?" Ward demanded, pushing to his feet. "What question? Why couldn't you answer it?" 'And why after Bifrost?' Ward wisely managed to suppress his first impulse, intimidation; and breathed a relieved sigh when May relaxed enough to eke out a congratulatory smile. So. It had been a test.

'And Mate.' He responded with one of his own, grateful his years of experience on the receiving end of trigger tempers had taught him that aggression, perceived or actual, was a tactic best avoided when dealing with Authority. Still irritated, he nevertheless managed a moderate tone and repeated the question. "What are you talking about, May?"

The smirk May turned on him spoke volumes even before she replied. "Got a little rage going, Ward?" May asked, careful the question didn't come off as smug or mean, more like she knew the answer without asking but was offering him the chance to recognize to it.

Like she could do no wrong! That smug, snotty little question from the smug, snotty little bitch pissed him off. 'Who the hell did she think she was and what the hell business was it of-'. "Damn it!" Ward ejaculated as the import of her question, and his unreasoning and overblown response, sank in. "Damn it! I thought-". The surge took him then. Defensively, he spun away, stepped apart from his fellow agent and drove, bare-handed, into the wall, his mind screaming. 'This can't be happening! Not again!'

Ward's first, not so rational thought, when next he had one, was that the floor had broken his fall. Not a bad call he decided, seeing May's benevolent smile hovering above him. "Take it easy, Ward." She cautioned, kneeling quickly to stay him, one hand to his shoulder while her other angled his head to the light. "Sorry. You landed pretty hard so...just lay here a few minutes. And let me put a cool cloth on that hand."

Hand? He could but wonder, watching as she wetted a towel, what about his hand concerned her. Seconds later an icy sting assaulted his knuckles sharp enough to surprise a cry from him and a grab at his previously unnoticed hand. Which May effectively blocked, elbow and body obstructing his path while her voice soothed. "Hush. Shhh, Ward. It's gonna be okay. Just lie still." Obedient to that softly uttered imperative, he blinked to pierce the encroaching metallic brume through which Agent May drifted.

"Wha' happ'ned?" Ward asked, welcoming May's hand in sitting up, aware now that the past several minutes were shrouded in a honeyed blur.

"That'll come back, Ward. I took you down. Couldn't let things get out of hand; and I do apologize for the miscalculation." May replaced the compress she had been holding to his hand and favored him with a critical eye. Solemn, she answered with a singular term; but it was enough. "The Staff."

"Oh, God!" He was going to be sick! That's right. He'd felt the swell of rage, fury that wanted venting, that took no prisoners and showed no mercy. He'd been Weak. He'd let it take over, again!

"-own trouble with it." May finished explaining. Only he'd missed the point; and how many others she might have made, he could not imagine. He tried to apologize but, even to him, the words, drawled out through uncooperative lips, made no sense. It didn't appear to bother May who glanced in his eyes once more then pushed his head towards his knees and repeated. "I said, the fault is mine, Ward. I wanted to offer you an impartial view of Lorelei's Incursion; to show you it's not a personal failure." This time there was no mistaking the smug smile in her voice as she explained. "It's genetic, Ward. You just got caught on the wrong side of the Chromosomal Divide. That's why you're down here; and if it helps to know, sex is definitely not proof against The Staff."

"Since exposure to The Staff, I have been forced to reckon with, let's say, more bad urges than good in the way of temper. In that moment, seeing you resist that compulsion and turn away-" May ruffled his hair in an unwonted display of affection, offering Ward benediction she suspected he'd rarely, if ever, received. "I was so proud of you, Ward, your strength of will. I just couldn't let you take it out on yourself." She checked his eyes again, pleased they no longer went their separate ways, and helped him straighten up. "I miscalculated the angle, used a little too much force."

"'S 'kay." He assured her, flushing at her approving gaze. "Tha'ks," he muttered, then pinked up again, appalled at his garbled speech.

"Don't worry, Grant, I'm surprised you're conscious," May advised, then chided herself that, as absolution, it was an abysmal failure.

"I've been fighting that urge myself, so, when you and Fitz were 'minionized', I suspected _you_ would be under the influence of both Lorelei _and_ the Staff. I wanted you to know why I think the last several days happened."

May sat back on her haunches and caught his eye. "Guess I shouldn't have been so abrupt. So direct."

That admission won her a wan smile from the listing Specialist. "'Greed," he smiled, little appreciating that her comradely hold kept him upright, and unaware until he was up and moving, that Fitz and Jemma had arrived.

"That's lovely, Ward," Jemma's chirp rewarded some indeterminate moments later, "Let's get you into bed and then you can rest. Right?"


	4. Chapter 4 MedBay

Ghaah! I still don't have a handle on this publishing stuff. 

**At long last here's the next chapter. I want to thank, with the most hearty handshake possible, LittleBounce for her inestimable editorial assistance and good ideas when I was tragically 'adrift off the Isle', lost in the mist, blah, blah, blah. You are too peachy, Little Lady. Another handshake, me hearties, for any and all who have borne with me throughout, and especially those who have been so gracious as to favor me with a review. Else one fears one has simply cast one's chickens into the void; and as we all know, the wee beasties are nae boomerangs. :). Beannachd Leibh**.

Light battered his eyes, it's brutal assault strafing an already aching brain to leave in its wake pounding, reverberant pain. Ward slammed his eyes on that agony, by habit muffling the moan which caught him unprepared. Where was he? Last thing he remembered was-_Oh, Lord._

"Borg!" At first no better than a whimper, Ward poured strength into the effort and struggled up to defend his ship. "Borg! I have to be ready, let me up!"

"No, no, no, no!" Simmons' piping distress added to his rapidly growing list of complaints while an octopus manacled him in place. And as the stunned silence erupted into indecipherable multi-voiced babble the noise and confusion flung both further challenge at Ward's embattled senses, and gave proof that they got the message. That he didn't want to be held down. They did not, however, free him. "Let me up, dammit. I have to-"

"Ward." May's mellow tones embraced him adding comfort to the solid, slightly roughened grip with which she cupped his cheek. "We've got it Ward. Stand down."

A direct order. Good. That, he could...do.

He woke, gasping in shock as his hand flamed into life. "'M sorry," second nature, that apology; the regret for his appalling failure was out before he could stop it. Grant cringed expecting retribution, but at the same time searching his mind for the memory of his latest insult. What was Garrett's lesson now? Not torture, they'd already done that. Though he sought to make out his surroundings, what he could see was fragmented and hazed with light bright enough to rearm his headache.

"Ward!"

That was Fitz! At last, someone he knew. Could trust.

"Ward, be still. Ye've hurt yer hand." All the explanation he had before something cold and gelidly metallic locked into place just below his elbow. Then a hum announced activation and-blessed relief! "Et's gonna be okay, now, Ward. Just se'le down."

"Understood, Fitz. did you and Simmons come up with this? 'Cause it's...just awesome! Maybe you could put one around my head, too. Because that really hurts-". Freed of at least one major misery and certain the scientists had been the agents of his relief, Ward continued in praise and thanksgiving till he ran out of energy.

"-unwelcome, Jemma, it's just unnatural. Can ye nae give him something to stun him?"

While he did not hear Simmons' response, a flush of not unpleasant warmth was the last thing Ward felt for a while.

" - a grown man, Jemma. Can ye no' leave him a bet o' dignity?" Fitz argued, pulling away the toweling she'd piled beside her patient.

"I don't care if he's a grown man or not, Fitz. It always made me feel - "

"Well, you're a girl, then, aren't ya?"

The rest of Simmons' remarks submerged beneath swirling surf and the backdrop of a shimmering gold and coral sunset as Skye glided from the waves. Bare but for the Godivan curls that embraced her seductive curves like long lost lovers, she slipped from the silvered bowl of one giant upturned clamshell to the next with a hypnotic grace that, strangely, blurred to a luster. Behind her blackened and silver debris interspersed amid the arterial wash of waves. Her presence drew his eye from the devastation boiling in flames and oil-rich smoke on the horizon, surely the source of that disturbing flotsam so out of place in this idyllic setting. There was something eerily familiar about the befouled beach, some memory from he'd locked away, as he had The Well, and he would *not* revisit it. Rather he chose to bask in her enchanting beauty, a chill of excitement sweeping through him at her approach, breath bated in anticipation as she neared, arm outstretched in greeting. Yet, however it seemed from afar, in reality her grip, though pleasantly warm, was wetly slippery.

Ward jerked away from the unnerving combination of sensations. What had seemed welcoming a moment ago now felt uncomfortably personal for a dream, one in which he wanted no part. Something was-

"Ward. Ward, you stop this instant!" Grammy's sharp toned command was quite out of character, if understandable, given his resistance to the intended bath. How he'd welcome one, especially for Gram's loving comfort; but he daren't allow her to see. The bruising, cuts and other things were too new. Refusing her made him want to cry, wish he could cry. But that was one of the many things Ward did not do any more.

"Don't look at me… you can't… don't…"

"Grant! Stop that immediately!" The crisply British voice snapped in exasperation. "Don't look at what, Ward? You're quite decent enough."

Jemma?

Ward's eyes snapped open, almost comical, she thought, excepting his obvious distress, which was not at all amusing.

_Gram? Oh, Lord, what had he said? And how much?_

Jemma tossed the cloth back into the basin and snagged her patient's flailing arm, careful for his splinted hand and mindful of the IV trailing behind. Grateful, too, that, agreeable or not to her planned bed bath, Fitz lent a hand in corralling the distraught recipient of her kindly-intended gesture.

'Can't imagine what he's afraid I'll see. I mean, I've seen practically everything he's got,' Jemma stewed, glaring at a smug Fitz across the bed. "You're just mad because I haven't offered you one."

"Well, I don't think et's appropriate, ye see."

"When I want to hear what you think, Fitz, I'll tell you. No, that's not how it went. It's 'when I want your opinion, I'll give it to you'. I saw that on a movie the other night. Nice line, isn't it? I've been dying to use it. Very autocratic, don't you think?"

" - beat it out of you," Ward corrected muzzily, "'s the line I know. Good line, though," he mumbled agreeably. Which prompted shocked then thoughtful looks from Fitz-Simmons. And-a traitorous thought after all these years-he wondered if he hadn't been on the receiving side of that equation more often than not.

"Hmmm." Simmons essayed, her unfailing cheer a bit forced at the uncomfortable turn her cinematic allusion had taken. "Well, as I was so pointlessly-"

"Wasn't pointless, Jemma."

"Informing Fitz - "

"I got the point. I jest don't - "

"You're hot, sweaty, a bit...rather, um overwhelmed. "

"He 'tossed', Jemma. No shame in that under the circum-"

"A bit worse for the vertigo - hush, Leo! - and I thought a little clean-up would make you feel better." The last she delivered in a very audible rush, sending a quelling look and a mouthed aside to her companion.

Unthinking, Ward nodded grateful acceptance, compulsive after those fifteen formative years when grooming had been a secondary consideration to providing food and what protection he could for himself and his younger brother.

"Well, then," Simmons chirped, basking in her success. "We'll just get to it, shall we? And thank you, Fitz!" Which seemed to decide the over-attentive engineer he'd best be elsewhere.

"Uh, right. I'll get ri' on et." Fitz announced and valorously withdrew, seeing discretion as the wisest choice in the face of the glaring Simmons. "I'll wurk on tha' -eh- theng we were discussin'."

Simmons, busying herself with preparations (complete, Ward noted, with informative play-by-play), covered Ward's chest with a soft towel, took up her soapy washcloth and started at the top, a brief advisory the sole warning before Ward's never-hoped-for dreams of heaven came true as the cloth smoothed down his body.

"I used to just love this, d'you know? I'd throw myself to the bed, demand a ginger ale and just bask," she confided, careful to avoid his freshly stitched laceration. "Made me feel appreciated, I guess, you know… loved. I - well, spent so much time studying, special classes, tutors, testing, what not that ― in retrospect ― I didn't have much of a childhood." Jemma's dreamy reflections provided both insight into her early life and a pleasantly enervating backdrop to her oh, so soothing ministrations. Coupled with the novelty of someone voluntarily seeing to him, Ward could almost believe she cared. Almost.

Like Skye, he, too, had sought a family, one that offered those fabled, beyond-a-bolt-hole extras. All his life, he'd dreamt of a real family, one unlike that he had endured for the fifteen years before Garrett liberated him. From frying pan to fire said it all; he'd made some poor choices and he'd lived with them. After that, life with Garrett-life anywhere else-was a godsend.

Unlike Skye, who everyone liked, he was a single, entirely replaceable tool. With diligence, obedience, and faultless service he'd hoped to earn a more permanent place here, and the intangible… love? He'd abandoned the search for that, accepting it couldn't come to him. He'd had hopes for inclusion in Coulson's Team; but now, as his failures mounted... even that evaded him.

"...I mean, don't get me wrong. I love being here, doing this; (I wouldn't trade for anything.) But occasionally I wonder what it was like for real kids. What was it like for you, Ward?"

"Hell," he replied honestly, the combination of concussion and her kindly interest confounding his innate reticence. As to wondering about the lucky lot of 'real kids', he could identify; he'd like to know, too. "Mine was definitely one to leave home for," He answered, and only Jemma's gasp alerted him to his uncensored candor. _'Oh, hell! Why did I admit that?'_ He moaned, "I should not have said that, Simmons." Ward caught her hand, offering in that tender grasp mute apology. "You don't have to- I mean, I'll-I can finish," he offered, catching the cloth in a gently engaged struggle for its control.

"I don't think so, Grant Ward!" Simmons' voice rose in vehement denial as she wrested the cloth from his hand. "Did I say anything to give the impression I was offended?" She plunged the freed washcloth into the basin of warm water with unintended vigor and aggressively soaped the cloth. "Do you think I care, other than on your part, what your family was like?"

Off came the towel and the biochemist vented her irritation on his chest, seconds later tempering the force of her attentions to her previously gentle, sensual assault. "I swear," she sniffed, yankng the subject mercifully back to herself. "Sometimes my family seems just so frightfully 'clingy' I'd willingly trade straight across."

"Trust me, Jemma," Ward assured her. "you wouldn't!"

"I'll believe you. But, Ward-" she exchanged cloth for towel and dried his chest, but spared the tiniest moment in appreciation of the body beneath the cloth (only tiny, though, since she was a professional). "It's not your family we care about, it's you. It doesn't matter who your family is; it matters who you have become. Who you are _now_, that we care ab-..._for._"

Ward basked in that avowal, locking it away for safekeeping as sincere, and let her monologue wash over him. Glad he didn't have to assess it for threat, he welcomed the respite. Her meandering conversation was almost as good as the narcotic (which she'd informed him somewhere in her ramble that he couldn't have) and then she'd gone on to provide an even better alternative, that line-of-mind chattiness which he'd often found maddeningly distracting yet, paradoxically, charmingly endearing. So why didn't he stop her? He had, in fact, considered then rejected the option for two reasons, a) impossible without violence or a muzzle, and b) infrequently, amidst the apparent babble, she provided significant information from that jam-packed brain.

"Ward!" Simmons' command stood out amidst the soporific swirl of words enfolding/enthralling him. "Ward, roll over for me. C'mon." She nudged his shoulder, sliding beneath to tug him in the desired direction. "Well done. Very good. Now just doze off again; you need your rest. Where was I?" And she was off, diligently administering comfort with both her meandering discourse and almost sinful temptation ― the intimate, non-sexual physical contact.

He drifted.

"Ward, wake up. You're dreaming." Simmons cajoled her fractious patient while preventively capturing his splinted hand. "You've had quite a bump, Sweet. Do you know where you are?"

'Sweet?' her endearment sank into his parched heart, capturing his attention as little else might have. 'Bump? Right,' he began to reason, per force shifting the struggle from the realm of physical to mental. 'The Borg in the gym.' That's where he'd been hurt; but he wasn't there now. Ward stilled as he sought through the muddling dreams. Where was he?

"Bus," he croaked, swallowed to moisten an uncooperative tongue and tried again to make himself heard while she relaxed the silken grip on his wrist. "Bus." A glance around confirmed a disturbing suspicion. "MedBay," he groaned. "Again."

"Well, yes," Simmons admitted, slightly miffed that he accepted it in such poor humor, and especially as he'd availed himself of her personal services. 'Lord, not _'personal_' personal', she flamed to herself ― she'd meant the bath in bed. As to his repeat presence in MedBay, she wouldn't have left him lain out on the gym floor to recover, even had she wanted to. _Again!_ she sniffed with dismay at his dissatisfaction at finding himself in her care, as his dismal gloomy adverb rendered abundantly clear, but she garnered from Fitz's pass with him, he was frightfully concerned admitting any sign of human frailty would make him seem weak. And that, he apparently equated with death. Dreadfully sad, she felt, but, still, no excuse for viewing her domain like the seventh circle of hell. Well, not much of an excuse, she amended honestly. All right, it _was_ tragic he didn't feel he could function unless he remained emotionally detached to the point of becoming a Robot. But was it a willing choice? Or had it been forced upon him? And this, Jemma lectured her worrisome nature, is a matter best dropped.

"I'm sorry you don't wish to be here, Ward," Jemma began, by habit attempting to quiet her patient, "but you'll just have to buck up. You've quite a decent concussion and an injured hand. Which, I should think will - " Abruptly Simmons froze at the shock she'd very nearly dealt him, entirely unintentional and just plain mean, had she carried through. Seconds later she bustled about nervously, belated wisdom leaving her unvoiced prognosis lie, and changed the subject. "It's been quite a while, Ward, would you like a bit of broth...or something?" It would certainly not do to detail the extent of Ward's injury to him, given what Fitz had shared of their 'boy time'. One telling point he'd come away with was Ward's conviction that, excepting his phenomenal combative skills and value as a Specialist, he was of no account. A bleak existence, to be sure, and she hoped his time with the Bus would help dispell that; but mean time, it would not do to tell him he'd broken several bones in his hand. Recovery would mean weeks of immobility and she could not see Ward tolerating that well, especially just now. Fitz's newly fabricated gadget should insure the immobility; it was up to the rest of the team to make sure he got help when he needed it and learned that he could rely on his brothers and sisters of S.H.I.E.L.D. Now to sell that to Mr. Roboto.

Simmons leapt out of her carefully situated chair, heart pounding in her chest when her slumbering patient erupted into frantic activity. Given his earlier uncensored reactions, she'd half expected something, but nothing quite this impressive. First thing, she needed to catch his heavily bandaged hand before he did more damage to himself, then she needed to talk sense into him. If she could.

"Ward," Jemma called, coming as near his face as she dared, well aware what she risked in such proximity. "Ward, wake up!" Desperate to prevent further damage, she threw herself into capturing his broken hand, all the while trying to reason him out of whatever battle raged in his dreams. "Ward, you're dreaming. You need to settle down." For someone so eerily quiet while awake, Jemma couldn't help noticing, he certainly made a good deal of noise while unconscious, though not vocally. It was just creepy that he fought, dodged, struggled, and other maneuvers she could not put name to, all without so much as a squeak. But, Lord, he was active! She ducked to avoid a potentially lethal blow, preventively trying to rein in his splinted hand while she tried to get through to him. "You've had quite a bump, Sweet. Do you know where you are?" Clearly talk was the only alternative left her in the face of his impressive display of brute force, where even her best efforts merely provided marginal drag to the arm she'd snared. "Ward!"

"Oh, thank God, Fitz. He was getting a bit to handle, so I-"

"Ded 'e hit you?" Fitz' sincere concern for her safety, as he thrust the boxed goodies to a side table and hurried to check her over, provided welcome salve.

"No, no we're fine," Jemma replied, consciously including Ward in her response. "It's just, he's a bit-a bit disgruntled to be here again. A bit soon, I expect. Isn't it, Ward?"

A question, directed toward him! Confusion notwithstanding, long years of conditioning took over and Ward -stopped. Blinking eyes to enforce focus, Ward reckoned he could not manage attention, but did his best to 'assume the position' and held himself properly attentive. Who had asked? And What? He could not, right off, recall.

"Beg pardon?" 'There, that surely could not, offend whoever had 'asked' for the lack of titular respect. Still, he braced fully expecting instructive retribution for his impertinence.

"I said," Jemma repeated, leaning near to check his eyes, a minor non-threatening evaluative intrusion regularly made these past hours which had not before garnered such a response, and jumped when he flinched, a response sadly more in keeping with Ward's Untouchable Soldier exterior. So, back to Mr Roboto it was, which was not, in her opinion, an improvement however it might add to his value as a combatant. "You felt it a bit soon to be back in MedBay."

"It's not that, Simmons," he murmured an explanation as his mind seemed to grasp reality, "really. I just can't-I need to be functional. I can't do my job-"  
She 'fingered' his lips to stop him. "Ward. Grant, you don't need to do everything, okay? We're not aground, we've not been boarded, we're not being attacked. Surely you can stand a little down time. For once?"  
When he started to interrupt, she put her finger back to his lips. "_If_ something should happen, Ward, and _if_ we need to, we will _ALL_ fight. That's what a team does. And we're not only a team, we're Family."

"Family." disbelief dripped from that word._ Don't ever hope for it! _was a lesson hard learned at Garrett's hands. That illusory offering he'd pursued so long should come with a warning sign: _abandon hope, all ye who enter here._

"What, you don't believe me?" she quipped. "Too bad. I guess we'll just have to adopt you, then, right, Fitz?"

"Always wanted a big, buff brother," Fitz affirmed. "You know, make it official."

A bit more alert next day, though still not to satisfy Simmons, Ward had another bed bath, better prepared now to embrace that unparalleled luxury, though he carefully concealed his pleasure as much as possible, feeling somehow disloyal for that indulgence. Simmons, while she appeared very pleased with herself, treated the day as no different from usual, until the end when Fitz came in to help him dress in his own clothes. Better yet, smoothed his fresh washed hair into order and finished off by applying the newly fabricated splint to Ward's arm, a favor which would've pleased him more if it had not 'locked' on in a way that required two functional hands to remove. That cheap trick left him less than amused but happy, all the same, to be up and about with even the promise of action.

When he was suitably fitted out, the Cheshire pair lead him into the (he must still be concussed if he failed to note it before!) darkened Common room and sprung their-  
"Surprise! Happy Birthday, Ward!"

"So, Ward, how does it feel?" Skye asked while Simmons and, uncharacteristically, May settled loaded plates before each member of the team. "Tomorrow you'll be a free man."

"Hardly relevant," he scoffed, eyeing the cake sitting on the carefully protected holographic table, still stunned that it was there. "As I'm going nowhere."

"Nowhere?" She parried, her own adorable snort of disbelief a charm that lightened his dismal mood, and swung her arms wide, barely missing the equally buoyant Fitz.

"Hmm," she pondered and theatrically struck a considering pose. "You'll be free to go anywhere on the Bus you like. Where else did you have in mind?"

Typical Pollyanna approach! In answer, Ward held up the new, thankfully black, appliance that locked onto and cradled his injured hand into immobility. "Kind of pointless," he deadpanned, noticing distressingly cheery smiles on the team. It seemed one and all were delighted he was crippled. Didn't matter, he consoled himself, wounded but unwilling to acknowledge it bothered him that they cared so little.

It did not matter, he knew; he'd get along. Yet another lesson learned from John Garrett: as long as he was breathing, he could manage. Always had. So much for the 'adoption' they'd made such a big deal of.

"Don't you worry, Ward," Fitz enthused, offering him his own glass of champagne. "We're family now, we'll take care of you."

'Yeah. Babysit the cripple.' Ward, never a join-in party goer, wanted nothing more than to return to his private bunk and sleep through the whole ordeal, though he had looked forward to the promised steak. "Not necessary," he growled, so busy watching Jemma neatly section his celebratory steak for consumption he did notice the conspiratorial grins surrounding him, "I can take care of myself."


	5. Give a Little Love

**Well, next to the last chapter and, my bad, I had this ready to go a bit ago and ...failed. Sorry to any who might be turning blue waiting for it. Again, my heartiest handshake for the long-suffering and patient LittleBounce for all the aide she has provided in editing this wee sgeul. Can hardly wait for the new season...except they'll probably make Ward a baddie. Curses! I do not own any part of AOS, or Ward would still be a good guy. =)**

"It was an — unfortunate sequence of events, I'll admit. I may have been subject to a bit of temper,—" May admitted later when she sat with Coulson discussing how their Specialist was, yet again, residing in the MedBay.

"I thought you said he seemed fine."

"He was, till I mentioned Bifrost and the Staff. Then he just lost it. Though I'll hand it to him, he didn't come at me, just let out one cry and lit into the wall. So I stepped in to keep him from hurting himself."

"By concussing him?"

"Slight miscalculation. I meant for him to land a bit softer, on the mat but…I may have overreacted. Perhaps succumbed to the Staff effect myself. A tad."

Coulson graciously allowed that to pass without comment, knowing the admission alone was enough to pain her. Besides, he was not having this discussion to lay blame but to pursue the reclamation of Grant Ward. "However regrettable, I suspect it may turn out for the best in the long run," Coulson commented, eyeing the tentative schedule Skye had set up for monitoring their 'Doubting Ward'. The one thing which seemed certain at a casual perusal was that backing up their promise to him would test the mettle of a saint, though the the strictures Simmons had imposed in light of the concussion should set some limits on their energizer bunny Specialist. As would the medication she had thus far contrived to get into him, mostly courtesy of the IV line she'd required him to leave in. Ward had been surprisingly compliant about accepting that condition of his parole, as he had that of sleeping monitored in MedBay. Knowing the control John liked to exert, and only suspecting the lengths to which he might go to accomplish them, Coulson feared Ward's unquestioning acceptance might be more a matter of Garrett's brutal, uncompromising conditioning than of any admission he needed the painkillers and help sleeping. And that suspicion chilled Agent Coulson bone deep that he might have acted too late to save this one

Still, he smiled in acknowledgement, no harm in trying.

• • • • •

Ward jerked awake and rolled over in the unfamiliar bed, unnerved for the moment it took him to identify as an IV line the trace that tickled his arm and shoulder with every shifting muscle as it trailed from the needle in his forearm to the accompanying bag suspended beside his bed. It took a second longer to recall he was occupying Skye's recently vacated isolette In MedBay. Enclosed not only by walls but also curtained for privacy, the cubicle provided a commodity he'd have prized had it not been for the IV. But all night its contents had been emptying into his veins and filtering into his bladder until he was desperately uncomfortable. For a second, he was sorely tempted to call for help. After all, last night Simmons had gifted him with the welcome boon of a call button, if he could only remember where she'd left it. Urgently in need, he scanned the bed, the nearby cabinet and, finally, the floor; but…no sign of it.

Though he would prefer to be fully clothed For the short trek there, Ward grudgingly admitted he wasn't up to the finer points of proper attire and comportment just now. The painkiller Simmons had piggybacked to his main IV bag seemed to have worn off leaving an unrelenting ache in his head, throbbing misery in his mechanically inarticulate hand, and him feeling dopey and out of sorts. All warned against ill-chosen action and unnecessary movement.

Ward flipped the sheets back, careful to clear his path; it wouldn't do to get caught in them and fall, certainly not in his current state. Then he was forced to shift, rolling back with a curse, to readjust the line caught under him, the better to reach over the railing in search of the catch he knew was there. Ordinarily this would not have been a problem for him, but today, burdened as he was, he needed help in escaping this imprisoning bed to visit the bathroom. But…no, he acknowledged with a tinge of resentment for the fervent avowals of last night which, today, had failed to materialize. No help to be had, then, for him there never had been, that was a lesson well learned in his thirty odd years. His one comfort was that he'd been too punky last night to doff his briefs after Fitz left or he'd be forced to make the trip in nothing but this accursed digital straight-jacket.

Ward glared at the black and silver bane Fitz-Simmons had so proudly bestowed on him yesterday, little impressed that it was removable if he couldn't manage the job alone. Damned thing made him look like something out of Dr Strangelove, for God's sake! While coincidentally impeding his ability to care for himself.

At last the catch released and Ward breathed a sigh. Now, if he could only make it out of the bed, down the hall to relieve himself and back again with no mishaps (the likes of which had put him in here), things would be fine. In light of that caveat, Ward's prospects for success seemed a bit more daunting and he, ever so briefly, glanced about the room, wishing, yet again, he could recall where that button had gone. Even from his different perspective, the elusive gift was nowhere to be seen. No help for it, then, Ward admitted, but to get to the can himself.

Cautious, Ward dangled his feet over the bedside, controlling his descent with the offside rail as he stretched for the floor then stood, slow and steady in shifting weight, even more so in relaxing his grip to stand while his senses whirled and his knees tried to buckle. A few minutes later, steadied by the bed, he remembered the IV stand had to go along. Retrieving it required more concentration and time than he felt he had; but, at the same time, he knew it would provide stability for his faltering balance and uncertain footing. Besides, unless he disobeyed instructions, he had no choice but to take that crutch along for the ride.

Already a great deal of his life, in fact too much, had been beyond his control. Rather in the manner of stepping off a cliff,— a single choice taken— had led to an irrevocable cascade of events and culminated in an inescapable conclusion. In his case, the hoped for rescue offered by John Garrett had had a decidedly Pyrrhic flavor. 'Better the Devil you know' pretty much said it all. Perhaps he'd made as poor a choice in opting to believe this group of people would help with anything. In the end it didn't matter. Ward caught the IV pole in his good hand, leaned against the opposite wall for stability and support, tucked 'the claw' protectively to his stomach, and made his way to the bathroom.

Once there, however, another difficulty quickly presented itself and left Ward groaning in frustration. The problem of balance he solved, with extreme prejudice, in a manner reminiscent of the 'toilet training' to which he had been subjected by Natasha Romanov while a previously indoctrinated Clint smirked from afar. He sat, careful to steady with each shift as he wriggled his pants down and, suitably humiliated and exhausted, succeeded at last in his quest. After that, he had no intention of getting up and no inclination to share the facility until he had recovered. Actually, he was so tired and shaky he didn't care if someone did need it; there was more than one in the Bus.

That it was poor sportsmanship, Ward readily admitted; but he wasn't feeling particularly even—tempered just now. The ache in his head had escalated to blinding and his hand, not to be left out, had joined the protest which left him trembling and faintly nauseous and hampered his efforts to return to the sanctuary of his cubicle in MedBay.

Fragile? on the way back from the bathroom, Ward paused on overhearing Simmons' conversation. Who, or what? Just as well, he knew, his legs were getting decidedly noodle-y. Pretty sure she had yet to notice him, Ward tightened his grip on the IV stand and augmented his stability with the nearby wall.

"No, actually Ward's doing very well, given the circumstance. But, as I've stated in my report, he is still quite fragile," the traitorous biochemist concluded.

Fragile? That's what Simmons called him? Ward's temper, already tenuously held in abeyance, deserted him. He'd had a hard enough time already this morning, even encumbered by no more than his boxer briefs, the IV and supporting stand, and the damned 'appliance' they'd locked him in, and all he'd had to do is go to the bathroom (with none of their damned, magnanimously offered, aide!). So, he'd stumbled, out of uniform, ill-groomed, hell, practically bare-ass naked, down to the bathroom, dragging that damned IV stand with him, shackled into a torture device worthy of Dr. Phibes, and she called him fragile? Once there he'd had to sit because he practically passed out on the floor, which was humiliating enough if that had been the only difficulty he encountered.

What should have taken a few minutes had taken forever! By the time he freed the stand from its retainer, manhandled it and himself through the too-damned-small door out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom (were all the doors in this damn plane so – damned small?) managed offhanded, (sitting for God's sake!) and tottered back towards his cubicle Ward's nerves were about shot, his head was pounding and his temper frayed beyond bearing. In short, he was in a foul temper and primed for a fight. He got it.

"What," Ward pushed away from the wall, closing on the offending scientist in full attack mode, "do you mean, fragile?"

He looked anything but, Jemma admitted, unquailing despite his aggressive advance. Oh, she knew he was lethal, in hundreds of ways...maybe thousands; but there was just so very much to appreciate in his measured and sleekly menacing approach, which even the IV stand in no way diminished. The supple black underwear that caressed that magnificently shifting musculature was... Oh! Simmons recalled herself with a small effort and set about proving a point before the outraged Specialist drew close enough to do something she, certainly, would regret. She knew better than to taunt him, especially now, so perhaps a teensy demonstration was in order.

"Oh, Agent Coulson! Was there something-"

Authority. Predictably the Specialist spun to face his superior and, not surprising, corkscrewed towards the floor, an outcome which she, professionally noting the sheeting of sweat on his even paler than usual skin and the fine tremors that registered in his fluttering IV bag, had fully expected.  
•••••

Simmons snugged Ward into the blanket as best she could considering fully half of it had deployed with her, when she dove beneath him to spare him another 'come to Jesus' meeting with the floor. There had followed a truly regrettable yet unavoidable, impact which had stunned him and very probably left her with some impressive bruising; but until he began to stir, she could not assess the damage.

"What happened?" Ward's first question came out a bit fuzzy.

"How are you feeling, Ward?"

"I'm fine." Simmons smiled at his poorly delivered and entirely predictable stock response. Though his pupils were still equal and reactive to her flashlight, clearly he was suffering from some photo-sensitivity as he hurriedly shuttered his eyes against that intrusion.

"Oh, Ward," she chided fondly, "that would carry so much more weight if your eyes were pointing the same way at any given time. How is your headache, really?"

Ward's sole response in lieu of throwing out another patent falsehood was to glare accusingly and close his eyes. Still true to type, he struggled to sit up, a maneuver which set off a stabbing reminder of her painful rescue.

"Tssssss!" Simmons caught her breath around that complaint. "Be still, Ward." She ordered, pulling the covers closer about him and using the maneuver to shift away from that pang without drawing his attention to her own discomfort. He had enough to worry over just now and it would surely subside, given time.

"You're bossy, Simmons." Ward's delivered this complaint with no temper behind it as he obligingly settled into her lap. "Bed's hard. Wha'd you do?"

"It's not the bed, Ward," Simmons reached down his side to spread the blanket over his legs and cuddled it closer to his shoulders as it did seem a bit chill for someone wearing no more than he. "It's the floor. We went down together when I caught you."

"'S stupid, Simmons. What were you trying to prove?"

'No need to be vicious, Jemma,' the biochemist reminded, carefully keeping her tone sweetly mild. 'I believe you've made your point very well.' "You were proving you were not fragile." Did that sound too smug?

"Besides, I did not say you were fragile, had you heard the entire conversation. I said your _condition_ was fragile. Which," she couldn't help herself and let a smidgeon of vindication sneak in, "I believe you have proven. Beyond a doubt."

"Your fault," Ward complained with just the trace of rancor. "I couldn't find that damned button, so—"

"What? We left it there last night. Fitz even made sure you wouldn't lose it no matter what. Don't you recall? Last thing before we left—". At Ward's continued and obvious confusion, she reached beneath the covers to grab "The Claw" as he thought of it; and having labeled it as such, refused to look. "He affixed it to the appliance so you would have it as long as you might need it!" And there, firmly set, and disgustingly obvious in placement, sat the ruby eyed device he had been seeking. In the very last place he wanted to look. The very physical reminder of his inadequacy and regrettable loss of self-control. 'Poetic Justice at work," he decided.

It felt good to be clean. Ward savored the moment, though wrapping the huge towel around himself was problematic, the Claw being more trouble than it was worth. At least his elbow served to hold the end till he got the other tucked in, even if he had to hold one end with his teeth while he did it. In the end, he sat on the dressing bench to dry off and wriggle into his underwear. The socks had proven beyond him. Had it been unwrapped, the damned appliance might have provided the needed aide in donning the damned socks; but with the baneful 'claw' sheathed in slick ... whatever it was ... he couldn't get enough grip on the frustratingly collapsable socks to even wedge a toe in. In frustration, he sat bleakly contemplating alternate methods when Fitz rapped at the door and called in, "Ye okay in there, Ward? Ready for some spiffing?"

"If you mean by that did I get my socks or anything else on, the answer is no. G—". By habit, Ward clamped a lid on his temper. 'Get a man to lose his temper, you've beaten him,' he just doesn't know it, yet. Only _he _did. "No. Might as well come on in and 'save me'."

"Et's not like that, Ward, and ye know it," Fitz explained, already talking when he came through the door. "Et's just ... We all understand how et is when ye're not able to do as ye're accustomed." Fitz bustled over, two fully functional hands easily stripping and storing the sheath from 'the Bane' and IV line it had protected. "Let's get these socks taken care of so you can shave, right? Then we can finish up and get to that training."

Right. Training. Ward remembered Simmons had okayed that when she released him from bed. Days Only was the stricture; and he still had the IV she insisted on for pain and antibiotics. He was free to go wherever the IV stand would allow, which was actually, with a bit of maneuvering, most of the ship, including the gym. So, training? That was something he could do, Ward smiled at the prospect for action as he rinsed and shook the razor. Didn't look too bad for his off hand, he admitted, appreciating that he found it more convenient to carry an electric than a blade or he'd be either bleeding or unshaven. Not so, really, he was better than that, thanks to John Garrett; but it would have taken more time than he wanted to allot for the simple ablution. He was anxious to get back to some kind of routine, some kind of structure.

• • • • •

"I know you're not over there doing push-ups, Ward," Skye's voice piped across the room, interrupting his rhythm as he thought he'd given both kids enough to occupy them and allow him a bit of 'muscle stretching'. With that distraction, he almost lost his balance and face planted which, mat or no, would likely render him unconscious, yet again, and earn more 'bed rest'. That particular development he meant to avoid at all costs. Ward relaxed from his 'one-armers' and proceeded calmly to crunches, cautious till he was sure the added pressure did not significantly worsen his headache. After days cooped up in bed, the activity felt more than good and he intended to get in a decent workout.

"Ward!" Simmons' uncharacteristically sharp voice blasted him from behind and when he shuddered to a halt, she continued in a more normal, though no less peevish, tone. "Did I, or did I not, set you reasonable limits on your freedom?"

"Yes, Ma'am, you did," Ward rose to attention so fast he barely caught the IV stand before it toppled, guilt leaching the color from his previously exercise flushed face. Even focused on the immediate threat the biochemist posed, Ward was tangentially aware that Fitz and Skye froze like the cornered vermin they were for letting her sneak up on him. Immaterial, how she'd caught him, Ward admitted; the fault was his, and he would accept the reprisals, though he'd no idea, beyond the physical consequences, what form her displeasure would take.

Ward stiffened at her measured approach, expecting—he didn't know what. And that uncertainty had to be the reason he flinched under her gentle touch. He'd never been wary of Simmons, or Fitz either, for that matter, who bore so great a resemblance to bumptious puppies. But he'd learned, long ago, never underestimate — In this setting she was Authority. And authority ... enforced its will.

Simmons was furious that Ward risked his health unnecessarily. In case of action, or duty, that was one thing which superseded such consideration, but this! This was just — beyond reason.

He flinched! When she touched him, he flinched as though she'd taken a whip to him. A whip, for God's sake! Of course, she'd heard the few things Coulson had shared of his past, especially his history with John Garrett; but that had been — theoretical ... hypothetical. This? This was visceral. This reaction from a man she could not, on her best day, hope to injure in the slightest quailed before her. Inconceivable!

For the briefest instant, Jemma had toyed with the idea of playing 'hardball' (she thought that was the correct term); but then Ward did not deserve mistreatment for doing as he'd been trained. Rather like a thoroughbred, he was selected and trained to the job he did; one could not be angry that he tried to do it as long as he was able. In the final analysis, was that not what made a good soldier? Well, Ward was here, and as good as he was, exactly because he was that indefatigable. Pointless, then to punish him. Perhaps a bit of a lesson was in order, though. Still so angry she didn't trust herself to speak civilly, Simmons turned instead, signaling him to follow.

Back in MedBay she turned to face him. "Ward, I know you're tired of 'lying about'. I understand that. But you've had a significant concussion and you need time to heal. Do you appreciate what I mean?"

"Ma'am." Jemma wondered his response hadn't been accompanied by a sharp click of highly shined boots and a crisp presentation of arms. Considering that, she could quite like to enforce her edict with something physical. But that wasn't fair to Ward, however justified she might be.

"All right, Ward," _Since you don't seem to feel you have to obey me,_ "We'll compromise." _Or show any regard for your personal safety_, "Sit!" Simmons gestured him to the BioMed chair and having satisfied herself that no harm had been done by his rash actions, she selected an assortment of remote monitors and turned to present him with an option. "You may engage in some _mild_ exercise, as long as these stay _on you_ and within _reasonable parameters_,". _Or I will be making certain you do stay in bed till you're completely healed_. "Is that understood?" _Or would you like to argue? _The inner-venting Simmons managed while taking her readings helped bleed off a little of her outrage at the way Ward could treat his beautiful body. It had the added benefit that, for all of her emotional venting, the recipient remained blissfully ignorant of it, as she had intended, and the hunted, wary look faded.

"A word about this arrangement, Ward," Simmons finished affixing the last of the varied bio-monitors and pulled from her lab coat a wristband. "This," she declared with her usual sweet smile, though there lurked a decidedly self-satisfied glint in her eye, "is set to alarm at levels which should allow you a _respectable workout._ If, however, it begins to beep, you will have two minutes to slow down and quiet it. If you cannot, that will be the end of your free-running. I can't risk your health, even if you seem willing to do."

"And lastly, Ward," she waited till Ward processed that and presented his arm in acceptance of her terms. Nodding, she fastened the monitor around his wrist and activated the system, which obligingly telegraphed everything to her console in vivid, blinking color. "Try to limit this first outing to an hour, please; and don't forget your antibiotic is in two hours."

Summarily dismissed, he had turned to go when her soft-spoken request warmed him through and through. "Please take care, we are concerned about you. _You_, Ward, not the Warrior."


	6. Perils and Picnics

**It took a while, but here is the next chapter. Thanks to everyone who has borne with me. Again, my most sincere and heartfelt gratitude extend to LittleBounce for her great editorial labours ( despite having her own excellent stories, not mention actual labor, to work on) on behalf of this wee sgeul. And to those who have favorited, followed and reviewed, a very hearty handshake. ooh, Caveat. I lied about this being the last chapter, it turned into a behemoth so I was forced to cut it down to size. Elf**

Perils and Picnics

"Come on, Ward." Fitz offered reason to the, thankfully only mildly piqued, Specialist. What did ye expect me ta do? I barely saw her before she yelled a' ye!"

"And that's why you two were cowering back in the corner?" Ward's rational demand battered the excuse as he approached his target.

"You don' have ta work with her all the time. I'll never hear the end of et, 'cause she expected me te stop you doing that."

To which Ward displayed his bio monitoring watch with an arched brow.

"She's worried abou' ye, Ward. Wish she'd worry abou' — No! Don' you dare —!" Quick as a wink, Ward's metal-edged arm closed around Fitz, immobilizing the smaller man's arms between them before he virtually carried him the short distance to the nearby bulkhead. "Ward, no!" Fitz pleaded, struggling, eyes wildly desperate. "Ward, you don't need te do this."

"Oh, I do, Fitz. You need the lesson," he intoned, eyes glinting mischief as he pulled from his pocket the ice cold bottle Fitz had just opened for him, carefully thumbed the top while he positioned it and emptied its contents to the gratifying shrieks of his victim.

"I've never seen him so ... playful," a smiling May commented, watching with Coulson as the engineer's ear piercing shrieks accompanied his desperate attempts to escaped that icy deluge.

"I'm not sure I've ever welcomed a mess to clean up more than I have this one," he agreed, encouraged by the moment of abandon that perhaps he was not, in fact, too late to rescue this wounded pup. While he had, predictably, accepted Simmons' monitors and terms, Ward did not appear to hold the necessity against her, nor their lack of moral support against Fitz and Skye. Of course, given his fondness for the hacker, that was not a surprise. What was, is that his response toward the engineer seemed refreshingly and uncharacteristically puckish.

On-screen, Ward released his victim, stepping away to collect the IV stand and a mop which, even single-handed, he plied with surprising proficiency. "What would you have done, Fitz? If I were really —"

"I know, I know! Ye just took me unaware, Ward."

"What should you have done?" He repeated, patient.

"I shouldnae have asked ye ta teach me."

"And that's how it will happen, Leo," he instructed, letting his student wring the sodden mop. "When you least expect it. You can't let your guard down. Ever." Satisfied with his efforts, Ward replaced the equipment and asked again. "What should you have done, Fitz?"

"Okay, okay. I was thenkin'. Em, I stomp on yer instep."

"Wide stance. Doesn't work."

"Knee."

"Telegraphed. I shift."

"Grab yer personal parts and —"

"Not your best choice, too easy to stop with that and after you piss them off, you'll have a harder time putting them down. Next."

"Lift my feet up and drop." Fitz ventured, bending to remove his wet shoes and sopping socks.

"Might work; but I'm bigger. If I fall on you, you could be injured or trapped. Plus, now I'm mad and it'll be harder to escape." Ward answered, collecting the socks and equally water-logged slacks his pupil handed over at his gesture. "Anything else?" He asked, squeezing the excess out against the sink wall before he put them in the dryer.

While Ward was occupied, Fitz disappeared for a moment into his room and returned wearing a new pair of slacks which he fiddled to adjust.

"Leverage, Fitz," the Specialist reminded evenly. "Leverage. So what —?"

"Oh, oh! One arm, up an' over, then down," Fitz exclaimed in delight.

In response, Ward repeated his attack. But this time Fitz was ready. "Up, over, turn and down," Ward coached, smiling as the engineer completed the maneuver and broke free, though he clearly took care for Ward's injury. "Good, that's good, Fitz. Remember that and remember — be ready. Because I will be."

Eyes glowing with his success, Fitz bounced to catch the IV stand as he turned to Ward. "C'mon, let's go work on that storage room and see what we need for supplies."

"Hnnh," Coulson's initial reaction. "Good to see Fitz getting a little training."

"Now," May's reply was a bit more realistic, "all we can hope is he doesn't practice on the unwary." But she, too, was smiling. About time something good happened to Ward.

• • • • •

"So what's the best move you can make to break a hold?" Ward finished filling the container he held, put the last three in a new one and set them on the cart beside him. "That's 51, Fitz. Do you have somewhere you want them stacked?"

"Thumb. It's got limited flexibility an' ye can use it as a 'come along'. Wouldn' tha' be more of a get along, though?"

"Don't quit your day job. Where do you want these boxes?"

The engineer considered it then moved the just filled containers to the lower level of the cart. "Et's a carton, Ward, no' a box."

"Carton, box, whatever. Who cares? Where do you want them?"

"You hold stuff, too, Ward, an' ye don't see me calling you a carton."

"Again, don't quit your day job. What's next on the list?" Ward reached further into the deep shelf they'd been working to pull the remaining contents to the fore, taking advantage of the Claw's protective inflexibility to scoop the items nearer for perusal. "What are these things, anyway?"

"Ye wouldn't know what they were ef I told ye, just collect 'em up by the numbers aside the packaging, et's easiest that way." Fitz answered absently, scanning the listings on his tablet.

"Your wish, my command," Ward's reply was uncalculatedly casual, enough so that he started a bit at the unwary naïveté it reflected. What was happening to him that he found himself joking, _actually joking_, with this young man when nothing in his history or training advised the wisdom in such reckless involvement? One did not make friends with possible adversaries, that was one of Garrett's rules: 'Don't play with your food'. Back then it had sounded really badass to a 15 year old, now it just sounded predatory. He was supposed to be a S.H.I.E.L.D., not a raptor. Ward shook such ruminations from his mind, those things were for later consideration. Now, thanks to Fitz, he had this job to provide much needed occupation to counter his enforced inactivity. Which, he reminded, he should quit pondering and start collecting ... 084? "Hey, Fitz! 084!"

"Wha'?" the engineer's vague response reached him from the far corner.

"084' Fitz. What are these?"

"Valves, micro. They come en handy on lots a things. Why?" And, as if he'd only just heard the query, "Oh, you mean the number? Yeah, kind a weird, isn' et? But et's just a number."

"I was just pointing it out, Fitz. Not intimating it's a conspiracy or anything; unless it is, then —"

"Et's not a conspiracy, Ward. I realize et's yer job to be paranoid, but still —"

"I have to point out the old adage: just because you're paranoid doesn't mean no one's after you. Words to live by, Fitz." _What the hell?. _This was getting to be unreal. What was wrong with him, did someone slip drugs into the IV? Well, he decided, not much he could do about it now; but he made note to refuse the next dose until he was convinced it was unadulterated. Meanwhile, he reached for a _carton_ to hold the 084's and started counting.

Some twenty minutes later, Fitz set his tablet aside and straightened into a stretch before turning to Ward. "I'm gettin' hungry, Ward. How 'bout you?"

"Yeah, that'd be okay, but I want to finish this first."

"Tha's all right," he assured, accepting Ward's need to finish anything he'd started. "I can go fix a sandwich and get us a few drinks. Make et kind of a pecnic. What say?"

"Sure," Ward agreed absently, dumping another box of small, mixed items to the working surface of their transfer cart beside him and continuing to work. "But you're still not getting to first base." _What. The. Hell_?. This frivolous banter was just wrong! Ward paused a moment, ostensibly considering the question. But in truth, he struggled to come to grips with his recent behavior. This wasn't him! He had _never_ engaged in horseplay! either physical or verbal, even as a child, because, back then, he'd spent all his efforts protecting and caring for his younger brother. And afterwards, with Garrett? Well, with Garrett, the games he'd played had been in a 'foxhole' and those stakes – were life and death. Period. Ward did _not_ play games!

"Well, what d'ye want, Ward?" Fitz asked, accurately divining the Specialist's quandary and fanning the spark of playfulness with his reply. "And, as ye've started et, I wouldn' try anyway, 'cause ye're too pretty."

A comment which Ward greeted with all the disdain it deserved as he edged back to let Fitz out. "Beef, I guess, Fitz. Or whatever's available."

"Right," Fitz breezed past his studiously engaged partner, "back in a few." But when the door shut and the room shuttered him from view, Ward's expression morphed to one of utter disbelief at his loss of control while Fitz's evinced unparalleled delight in the same.

'Idiot!' Ward berated, plenty used to hearing it from Garrett. "What are you thinking, Ward? Get a grip." He had maybe a quarter hour to gain a modicum of equanimity before Fitz returned and he meant to. What to count now? Well, a middling rack held — he shifted one experimentally — lightweight, mid-sized boxes (he was sure these were boxes, whatever Fitz avowed) which appeared to share a number, so this was his objective. Turned out there were more more of them than he'd allowed and he began stacking the overflow on the ground, having no more convenient area, and every intention they'd only be there a few minutes. But when he turned to clear a space for them, the boxes staged a flanking attack.

Ward jumped at the collapsing attack, automatically on the offense. As quickly, he spied the culprit and, the blinking alert of the blabberwatch. The IV, which he'd virtually forgotten, had become entangled about one of the boxes and, when he turned, the added tension had unbalanced it and set off a chain reaction. Having reasoned that out, Ward realized he'd been preparing to battle 32 well-wrapped but ill-prepared boxes into submission.

_Just great_!. What else could go wrong? First he was scared by a bunch of boxes, and the resultant jump in his 'vitals' set off the damned Benedict Watch so everyone could enjoy his humiliation! The picture that painted was just too good and, like Valentine Smith in Stranger In a Strange Land, the whole scenario was so horrible he'd no choice but the release of laughter.

Ward was still chuckling, minutes later, when he reached deep into the corner to clear away a small box of some kind in preparation of placing the now counted boxes and when the interloper proved intractable, Ward added his other to the effort even though that cut down on visibility. He knew where the damned stuff was, now, if he could wrest it free.

Suddenly, nothing warning but a pinch at his splinted wrist, warmth sprayed the boxes below, painting them in bright arterial blood. While his heart started, the tattle-tale watch let out a single abortive bleat and fell silent as Ward, not unfamiliar with such occurrences, tested the trap. Careful to slip between wrist and rack, with his free hand, he tourniqueted his injured wrist, a calculated preference to relying on the 'call' button. Fitz would be back soon and they'd work it out, no fuss.

"What are you doing, Fitz?" Simmons demanded, sparing the briefest glance at his food laden arms as she hurried past.

"Et's lunch, Jemma. Were we no' to eat?" He reasoned, matching her speedier pace, and began to worry though he had no reason to do. "What's the matter," he asked following the clearly upset scientist.

"His monitor went off!"

"— and?"

"And then it stopped, Fitz, which it very well shouldn't have."

"He's very —" Fitz began but she cut him off as they reached the door.

"Put that down," her whispered instruction was loud enough to be heard throughout the Bus. "Go see what's happening," she urged, shooing him towards the door. And Fitz had to admit that, however bossy, at least she was trying to abide by her agreement with Ward despite obvious concern.

Fitz smelled the blood before he saw it, barely opening the door wide enough to allow access when Ward hissed a warning. Fitz's heart slammed in his chest, loud enough that he was surprised Simmons couldn't hear it from her post outside the door. "Wha' happened?" Fitz shot the question at Ward, searching his pocket for a flashlight he always carried, and privately thanking Simmons provident suggestion that he leave his com open so they could communicate despite Ward's understandable reluctance to 'sharing his shortfalls'.

"I don't know," Ward's calm reply helped. It really helped the panic that wanted to scream and run about for all that he knew it was wrong and would ill serve his friend. He had held together before, he would do now. "I went to shift this box and — it bit me."

"Can ye get free?"

"I don't want to try if I can't see what I'm hooked on," Ward explained, still calm, a feat Fitz knew was beyond him as the wounded man shifted to give the him access.

"Okay, I get that. Let me see can I get a look." Fitz edged beside the wounded Specialist, careful of the piled boxes and pooled blood which, thankfully, did not appear to be getting any bigger. Light or no, it was a close fit and Ward's body shadowed the scene. Tiptoes, then, Fitz decided and crawled onto the lowest shelf, using it to boost himself closer to better see where Ward was pinned. "I can nae see anything," he reported, embarrassed that his voice wavered, "let me get a feel."

"No, you don't, Leo" Ward informed, his tone calculatedly icy, "I'm not that kind of man," and, as intended, the engineer caught his breath on a coughing chortle and settled into his accustomed businesslike demeanor. Seconds later, augmenting his vision with the flashlight, he edged in to check from below.

"Feels like a screw or some other kind of fastener. Et's bent upward and caught on yer splint."

"Can you take the splint off? Would that make a difference?"

"No. Et's wedged in there. Le' me see ef I can get a bit closer." Fitz stepped up to the next shelf, which he used to propel himself nearer the Specialist, little noticing and less caring that blood crept along the slats to paint his shirt. "I think I can —"

"I can just pull it off —"

"No!" Fitz snapped a deterrent grip on Ward's good hand. "Ye'll do more harm than good. Just hang on a bet. Le' me look." Penlight in mouth, the smaller man shifted for leverage and caught Ward's wrist in both hands then pushed the captive splint towards the wall as he lifted up and, in surprised delight, dropped the light as Ward's hand came free, then gaped with horror as blood spurted from the wound with renewed vigor.

"Oh, my God! I can' believe —.

"It's okay, Fitz," Ward's solid, calming voice assured him. "I let go when you pulled. I'll get it. Was about time to loosen up on the pressure anyway."

"As if." Fitz scoffed as he crawled free of the imprisoning rack to catch its stalwart victim. 'Some rescue!' But standing alone, the Specialist looked less steady than he sounded and readily accepted the supportive shoulder he was offered. "C'mon, Ward, let's go." And, he noted the measure of his need also, that Ward neither balked nor argued his suggestion. IV and flagging Specialist in hand, Fitz no sooner reached the door, his offered words both encouraging his wounded partner and informing the rescuers waiting outside the door.

"It would have been faster if you'd let us put you on the cart." Simmons commented, little hiding her irritation at his cussed insistence on watching everything she did. Proffering for verity the antibiotic dose she'd prepared then piggybacked onto his old IV line, she could understand that Ward, confounded by his unusually and seemingly inexplicably jocular outbursts, questioned his loss of control. It would, however, have been more amusing were he not in danger of bleeding out before she could treat him.

"I didn't need to be babied," Ward insisted yet again, "I told you, I could walk on my own just fine." His attention, unwavering despite his sinking blood pressure, Ward waited until Simmons moved away to gather her surgical equipment and only then nodded the okay for May to start a second IV in his uninjured arm, which she managed with a sympathetic look and irritated sigh.

"Yeah," Simmons acknowledged, cutting him no slack, "but it took twice as long and you'd have fallen on your face without us."

"I'd have made it."

Quite probably true, she admitted having seen him operate, or he'd have died trying.

"I've done it before." And the sad fact all acknowledged, he certainly had. "And if I hadn't," he added as an afterthought, the chilling reminder, Coulson noted from his discreet observation of the Specialist's treatment, of why he'd finagled the man's transfer, "I deserved what I got, because I failed." _And failures don't deserve to live_. That had always been the huge difference of opinion between himself and Garrett: Coulson had felt that, in keeping with their avowedly altruistic purpose, the training of personnel should be focused toward that end. One could not train agents like attack animals and expect humanity, self-sacrifice and compassion. The frustrated and bewildered Robot now under Simmons' care proved that point for him.

Ward could do it alone. Always had. Because he'd always _had_ to. But he didn't have to, that was the point they were trying to make Ward see. He no longer had to go it alone. Lamentable as this incapacitating injury had been, the team had hoped it would provide their solitary Android with proof it no longer had to be that way. On the negative side, Coulson observed in evaluating the accident, he'd refused to rely on the easily accessible 'alert' attached to his splint; but, on the positive side, he had waited for Fitz, expecting, if the engineer's observations were correct, the pair of them would manage. For Ward, that was a big step. Not whole-hearted reliance on Team, Coulson admitted, but a promising beginning. Maybe the gentle touch was starting to work on his emotionally scarred and starved pup.

He watched as May assisted in the minor surgery, Fitz and Skye watching from just outside the sterile perimeter. Everyone cared about their Specialist, that much was clear, (and he'd certainly known a few he'd gladly have jettisoned, so he knew whereof he spoke). Ward was a Keeper. Now, if they could only convince him of that.

Vague memories of yet another decadently self-indulgent bath in bed followed him to consciousness as Skye coaxed him awake. "Ward, come on, wake up."

Slumber warred with that sweet call of welcome, laying claim to his eyelids, but years of habit won out and Ward forced himself awake. "What?" He croaked, surprised at how dry his throat was despite the two IV's suspended above his bed. That same conditioning had him checking his ability to function should the need arise. Both legs and feet responded, but —in the background, the measured, comforting beep of the monitor picked up— his right arm did not! And when he meant to check it, he found his protectively padded left arm handcuffed to the side rail. Thus provoked, his vitals nudged the already strident alarm into high gear, adding counterpoint to the clanking 'cuffs. Skye tried to help, he noted, absently proud. She gained leverage with a solid grip on his thumb to stall his efforts.

"That will be enough, young man!" Despite the incongruity of her address, Simmons' effectively delivered command cut through Ward's panicked attempt at escape, while the syringe she held at the ready provided added incentive to cease and desist his misbehavior. "Exactly what is the complaint, Ward?" She asked, sweet-voiced as ever, eyes drifting to his wounded arm. "If you're worried about your arm, it's all right, it's going to be fine. We merely used this opportunity to check on your hand," her patient explanation made him feel like a naughty child, "but we didn't want you moving while I replaced the bandaging and Fitz cleaned the splint," Her comforting voice provided reason, finally taking pity on the worried Specialist. "So we left the neuro-suppressor on. Not only will it keep your hand still while it's unprotected, it will help with the pain as I've had to do a bit of repair on some of the musculature as well.

"Now, do you want something to help you sleep, or will you be okay?" In Ward's world, that was a rhetorical question and they all knew it.

"I don't need to—"

Simmons snorted her disbelief at her patient's predictable reluctance to rely on others, especially as his eyes began drifting almost the moment he denied any need of sleep. "Ward, I realize you don't see yourself succumbing as do those of us pathetic mortals; but please, this once, let it happen. You've lost over three units of blood (as I calculate it) and, while I can replace the volume, I cannot do a thing to replace the cells you've lost. That is strictly up to you, Sweet; it takes time and rest." (Okay, rest wasn't critical, though it helped, but she needed leverage to assure his compliance and this —dirty play as it was—was just the thing). "You're healthy and young, so the rest of today and tomorrow should be enough time to make a good beginning. Will you wait that long?"

Given reason, Ward nodded acquiescence. Which Simmons, smart girl, rewarded with her effusive thanks, even as she set the syringe in his IV and explained the sedative would help him rest when they removed the suppressor and replaced the splint. 'Good boy!' Coulson smiled at the progress his pup continued to make. Learning to rely on others was going to be a long haul for Ward, who'd spent at least thirty years on the receiving end of the worst humanity had to offer; it was time he shared in some of the good. For Ward — and May, joining his vigil for the young man— it was past time he cashed in on the good, might as well take out that second fowl since she was handy and he was at it.

"Sandwich?" Ward glared at Fitz, incredulous. "Last I remember, you were dragging my bleeding body out of storage. Are these those sandwiches?"

"No, a course not!" Fitz joked in retort, "ye loon. We ate those."

"I'm starving, so I'm pretty sure I did not consume my sandwich. You know, the one _made_ for me."

"No, that was—" the engineer clammed up and busied himself helping Ward into pajamas and slippers for the promised picnic, careful of both IV's and his pressure bandaged wound. "Well, ye don't need ta know who it was."

"No," he conceded good naturedly, "tell Skye I'll get her later."

"How ded ye—" Fitz started, slipping an arm around the cautiously rising Specialist.

"She's a 'sharer', Fitz. It's a bit annoying; but it's what she does. In a way I can understand it. She might as well have eaten it, anyway, I didn't get a chance, did I?"

"No, ye did not, and I'm sorry abou' that."

"Wasn't your fault, Fitz, my own stupi—"

"No, it was not, Ward. Et was just an accident, things happen. Could na be helped. Now, we're gonna forget it."

"You got it, Fitz," Ward agreed, eyes focused and cautious where he stepped. More so than usual, Fitz noted and edged a bit closer to offer the needed buttress against a fall.

When at last they reached the common area, Ward's eyes and heart lit in delighted relief that the couch was both unoccupied and welcoming with blankets and pillows arrayed thereabouts. More than anything just now, head woozy and vision speckled with blanks, Ward just wanted to lay down and recover from the trek, horrified that Jemma's estimations had proven true. Even so, that failing was not one he could acknowledge, one never advertised injury but soldiered on. Tempted and tried, he'd had years of practice denying himself those heart-warming experiences and this was no different. '_Keep the edge_' that refrain haunted and drove him toward one of the smaller, unpadded—

"Ward," the quiet ring of Coulson's address drew Ward to a falter. "We've saved a seat for you." Ward didn't need to —but did cast a fell look he couldn't resist —to know which it was. He almost moaned. Garrett would—

"I shouldn't," he tried to claim duty's call.

Coulson's deceptively intractable response accepted none of it. "Still, Ward—Grant— we'd very much like you to have it."

'Defeat looms', his training warned. 'Stand firm,' but, as Ward accepted the inevitable and allowed Fitz to take the lead, a frisson surged through him even more intensely rewarding than walking from a firefight untouched, an elation entirely unexpected for so small a reward. Still, as Fitz settled him on the sofa, providing pillows to support his splinted, aching arm and blankets to stave off the chill which seemed to have overtaken him en route to the picnic, that singular wanton act of abandon did not seem so great a misdeed. Ward was still trying to gain the upper hand on the tremors which had come on him in transit when a heated weight blanketed his shoulders and draped across his lap, providing welcome warmth courtesy of —he glanced back to see—May, her kind gesture accompanied by a wink and a smile.

Well-practiced Reflex returned the gesture while Ward struggled to make sense of it. After all, they had decided to keep their sexual encounters to themselves and, (in any case), he was in no shape to accommodate her. So why else would she—well—be interested?

The initial injury? That had, when said and done, been his own fault and they'd exchanged apologies days ago on that account. The arterial blowout had been his own as well. There was simply no explanation, as Ward read matters, for May's action. But it did include him in the group which, while puzzling, was novel and oddly pleasant.

Coulson watched his rescued pup from his place in the seating grouped around the coffee table. Even without the tipoff paler than normal complexion, his movement was tentative—no, unwontedly cautious—as though he wasn't certain his strength would see him to the goal upon which he focused singular attention. And there, after an abortive attempt to do penance in a plain chair, he sank into the selected couch with a relieved sigh. May supplied the heated blanket Simmons had advised them in planning this evening out that she thought he might need. As that was her purview, none had questioned the suggestion and he was glad they'd had it ready because Ward huddled amidst the nest they'd prepared, sliding down to rest his head on the back of the cushion.

"So," Skye asked from her own invalid friendly seat, "are you ready for that sandwich and soup, Big Guy?"

"You mean the one _Someone_ helped themselves to at noon?" Ward's playful grin taunted. "Are we talking about that sandwich?"

"And it was delicious, too, Ward," she smacked noisily,

"Now, now," Jemma ushered in her utility cart, laden with sandwiches and a tureen of stew. "Let's play nice or _Someone_," she intoned archly, "might suffer a relapse and miss dinner."

"And the sign of that, I'd venture," she added pointedly watching Skye paste an innocent look onto her beet red face, "is facial ticks. Wouldn't you agree, Fitz?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm sure et is," he smirked with good natured glee in support of his friend.

"Good, that is settled. Now, you'll want stew to go with your sandwich," Simmons mothering gene kicked in as she produced a lap table, complete with cheery print napkin, and set up a bottom heavy mug — to offer greater stability, she answered his questioning brow—and a sandwich neatly quartered for manageability. "And I've some lovely juice for you, too, Sweet. Apple, as I felt orange might be a bit of a challenge to your stomach just now."

Ward savored that moment's concern and cached it away in the very small section allocated to such tender, frivolous memories, touched that she even considered him. He didn't even roll his eyes at the blatant display of mothering while, behind Simmons, Skye tempted her wrath with renewed eye work and Fitz's snickered response won him a glare to accompany the abrupt delivery of his own sandwich. A measure she repeated with Skye's sandwich and a clearly cautionary query. "Does anyone else want to continue this childish behavior?"

When dead silence answered, she smiled in satisfaction at having ended their escalating squabble. "No? Wonderful."

Simmons continued to the coffee table centered among the grouping of chairs and set out bowls and the remaining sandwiches on the cloth bedecked coffee table which, Ward was not the least surprised to notice, matched his own properly deployed napkin. Jemma did nothing halfway or unplanned; it's what made her such an excellent scientist and, apparently, a good mother. While Simmons, completely in command of social protocol, set about serving up the stew and drinks, Ward saw to devouring his long delayed meal.

And though he'd never allow either of them the satisfaction of hearing it from him, privately he had to admit, this was one great sandwich. No, it was a culinary masterpiece. It was — well! it had been a long time between meals and he was really hungry. Probably it was just further manifestation of his blood loss. Didn't matter. He'd do whatever needed to recover and return to his job. It would be a sacrifice but he could eat another four or five of these little babies, Ward smiled to himself watching Fitz inhale his own. Damn if he wasn't right, little bugger.

"So, Ward," Fitz began, waggling what remained of his own quickly disappearing sandwich before Ward. "Isn't et the best?"

"It's okay I guess," he replied, his delivery calculated to provoke, "Probably just because I'm so hungry."

"Ye're full of et, Ward, I saw ye droolin'. Ye canna deny–"

"I was not drool—"

"Well "

Simmons' perky intervention halted the escalating chatter before it got out of hand, Coulson noted, hiding his amusement behind his own excellent sandwich and thanking the gods of fortuitous timing that she'd missed his last, sizable intake of coffee or he'd be enjoying that gulp through the unconventional channel of his nose. As to the proposed game (which, in the ordinary course of events he would've declined)— in for a penny, in search of a pound. He knew he'd never make the point with Ward about allowing himself to become part of the Team instead of peering in through the window of his self-enforced isolation if the senior agents, functional parents of this flying kindergarten, abandoned them, especially at such a vulnerable moment. Beside him, May shifted, no doubt fondly contemplating the same exits he had wistfully inspected for escape options only moments ago.

"What sounds good?" He asked, pleased when she settled back into the actually very comfortable armchair, resigned to join in, whether she wanted to or not. He could not agree more, personally, but if it helped Ward, he would rise to the challenge. Besides, May had grown too reclusive, too introspective for her own good. Come to it, so had he. Maybe they could all benefit from some fun and games.

"Battle—" was Ward's predictable call.

"Canna play tha', Ward. Everyone's gotta be included. That's what makes et Game Night."

"How 'bout Risk?"

Ward's second suggestion, Coulson reflected, while certainly one for which he had a marked affinity in that it suited his tactical facility and training, was also one which, suiting his professional command of strategy, was best left by the wayside now. Before he was obliged to interfere, Skye spoke up.

"I don't think we should be playing war games, we get enough of that already. Besides, I still get tired and I can't concentrate. How about Charades?"

Artful manipulation or not, that was an excellent idea soon adopted as one which would allow Ward to kibitz without needing to move around significantly and had the added advantage that, should he fade out as he had several times already, he could chime in any time he wanted. As it happened, that proved a decidedly welcome advantage in the game.

"It wasnae cheating," Fitz defended the win on that round as Ward drifted back into sleep. "He's not a hustler. Et's just his training."

"Like I SO believe that!" Skye thrust her complaint in his face, pugnacious in disgruntlement. "He hasn't opened his eyes in the last thirty minutes but he still knows the answer?"

"Wha'? Ye think we planned thes? How dya think we did tha'?"

"I don't know. Yet—"

"Shhhhh!" Simmons separated the two, her forceful whisper ushering them aside to leave Ward out of the dispute. "I've been watching, Skye. It seems to me he's monitoring our guesses and using them to deduce the answer. He's just very good at it. Besides, this is supposed to be fun not a bloodletting. Several of us," she pointedly eyed Skye and the marplot charades player, "have lost enough blood already I think, let's not aim for more, shall we?"

"I could not agree more," Coulson stood to join them gauging, as it seemed Jemma had, the drooping Specialist. "It's about time we all get some rest and spare our recent wounded."

"I certainly concur, Sir," Simmons approached her slumbering charge, well aware of the risk in too close an approach. Her soft voice and gentling touch saw Ward's eyes flutter to join his no doubt already awakened mind; proof if he'd need it, of the old adage, 'a soft voice turneth away wrath', though in Ward's case, it was less a matter of wrath and more one of straightforward duty. Ward's motivation for over-training was not one of vindictiveness, rather of soldier like duty. The sad fact that he was an extremely proficient killer did not make him a brutal, psychotic murderer, however hard John Garrett had worked to remake his 'rescue' in his own image.

And that was why Phil Coulson, Goody Two-Shoes in John's derogatory resistance to the resurrected Avenger's request, had fought to get him on the Team. No matter how jealous, brutal or intensive Garrett's efforts, the 'tin man' had a heart. It was just very, very well and safely bunkered against Garrett's corruption. In fact, in his own unique way, Grant Ward's spirit was as undefiled as Skye's: it just had not seen the light of day since his grandmother's death. Past time, in Coulson's mind, it did.

"Well," Jemma announced, interrupting Coulson's wishful thinking, her slender strength adding to Fitz's in steadying the paling Specialist who was now on his feet and protesting he needed no aide. "I think we shall agree to disagree on that one, Ward. I'm getting tired of patching you back together." Jemma settled his wounded arm comfortably across her shoulder, and smoothed his sleep rumpled hair before catching the double bagged IV stand and nodding to Fitz on his other side. "Let's get you back to your room, young man."

As they moved away and Coulson turned back to help May tidy up, he heard her, fearless as ever, inquire, "Now do you need the restroom?"

If Simmons' personal brand of nurturing medicine couldn't work magic on his beaten pup, likely nothing could. But Coulson was betting Ward's reclamation on the Team; and just maybe, May's, too. Would that, then, make him a Too Goody Two-Shoes? He smiled at the fanciful notion. One could but hope.

"C'mon, Ward," Fitz continued his interrogation while helping Ward out of the pajamas Coulson had provided them and into his own, more comfortable, over-sized T-Shirt and sleep shorts. "If ye weren't awake and watchin', how'd ye get the answer. Just, ye know, so I can amaze Skye, as she thinks ye were cheating."

"I heard," his laconic response to that hopeful provocation, "I wasn't sleeping, mostly. And how could I cheat?"

"Exactly my point," Fitz grinned encouragingly! "So what _did_ ye do?"

"Oh, Leo, will you leave off already?" Jemma chided absently, prepping the new IV bag with which she replaced the one on his good side before carefully discontinuing the one above his newly repaired artery and broken hand. As she adjusted the drip rate, she warned, "talk fast, guys, the Sandman is coming."

"Vidi, Audivi, Cogitavi," he mumbled, already drifting toward sleep.

"See?" Simmons crowed in self-satisfied delight, "just as I said."


End file.
